


Pride and the Badge

by Crossroad



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Jokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Guns, Hunters & Hunting, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lots of Patriotism, Lots of guns, Multi, Musical References, Nature, Novelization, Patriotism, Platonic Soulmates, Twice the Asskicking, Two Deputies, Veterans, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossroad/pseuds/Crossroad
Summary: Junior Deputies Rook and Bishop joined the Hope County Sheriff's Department looking for an easy path to retirement, full of days spent looking for lost livestock, hiking, and fishing. Then an ambitious U.S. Marshal reaches out to their Sheriff about an outstanding warrant, and, well, you know how the story goes. . .
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "I wish the story in this game was a little more fleshed out."  
> "Let's see you do better!"
> 
> Here we are.
> 
> I plan to more-or-less directly adapt the story of Far Cry 5 into a prose format, expanding, altering, or cutting things as necessary. The seeds (haha) were there, I just wish they had more room to grow. Were there any moments where you wished, "Huh, I wonder if they'll expand upon that?" Send in your suggestions! Feedback highly appreciated.

**Prologue — The Man Comes Around**

* * *

_Beep!_

Rook spun around, planting her foot in the dirt as she raised her Remington 870. She punched the safety off, acquired her target, and fired. Splinters flew from what had been the bullseye of a plywood target. Racking another round, she rushed left to the second position. Two more targets; one at fifteen meters, second at twenty. _Boom!_ One down, work the pump, shift stance, keep your breathing steady, _Boom!_ Two down. Tube’s empty. Rook knelt, and pulled the fore-end back, ejecting a spent shell.

Quickly, but steadily, she pulled a loaded shell from the side-saddle ammo rack and loaded it directly into the chamber. Slamming the fore-end forward to chamber it, she pulled another shell and fed it into the loading gate underneath. _Again. Again. Not too slow, not too fast. Don’t fumble it._

Stand. Onto third position. Shoulder the Remington, acquire targets. Control your breathing. _Boom! Click-CLICK! Boom! Click-CLICK! Boom!_

“Ten seconds flat!”

Rook pumped the Remington, then pumped it again, making sure it was clear. Punch the safety on. 

“Sharp as always, Rook.”

“Thanks, Todd.” Rook handed off the Remington to her instructor. “I could’ve done better on that reload.” With that, she began to collect her spent shells.

“It doesn’t get much better than that. Any faster, and you’ll run the risk of fumbling. You’ve got the pace down,” Todd said, placing the Remington on a fold-out table.

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“It can hurt your wallet,” Todd said, chuckling. “Not that I’m complaining. I just don’t see what backwater hillbilly bullshit could warrant all this.” Todd gestured to the rest of the range facilities. The mock buildings. Training dummies. The arsenal inside the clubhouse.

“It pays to stay sharp,” Rook said. “Let’s run those pistol drills next. I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

~~

_Nothing better than a hike in the mountains._

From this height, you could probably see clear over into Canada. _Well, not really, but. . ._ The pines blended together into a verdant sea, only broken by rocky outcroppings and small ponds of grass.

The air was thinner up here, and even at Bishop’s leisurely pace, navigating the trail was getting the heart pumping. 

_Five more miles,_ he thought. _Wonder what I’ll do when I get home. Cook a nice meal?_

_Sure would be nice if I had a meal waiting for me._

Bishop looked up to the eagle circling overhead, looking to find a meal of its own.

_Maybe one day, Bishop._

~~

  
 _Six shotguns. There aren’t even six of us,_ Hudson thought.

Still, one-by-one, the Hope County Sheriff’s Department’s six ancient Remington 870s were disassembled, thoroughly scrubbed, generously lubricated, wiped down, and reassembled.

 _This one hasn’t even been fired in this decade._ Hudson replaced the last shotgun on the rack before sitting back down at the workbench. Sighing, she rubbed her forehead. It had been a long, slow shift. There were still two hours left before she could go home. Thoughts of her warm bed and some cold pizza flooded her mind as she unholstered her service pistol, unloaded it, cleared the chamber, and began to disassemble it for cleaning. After that, she’d have to update the log hanging on the wall by the door. So much paperwork.

~~

Pratt consulted a small clipboard as he circled the Bell LongRanger. “Right static port; Check. Cabin doors, no visible damage,” Pratt gave the handle a tug, “and secure. Check. Windshields. . .” Pratt inspected the large front windows. “Minor wear, no impact on visibility. . .” he mumbled, noting this in the log. “Landing skids. . .” Leaning down, he checked the skids for deformations or cracks. “Check—oop, almost forgot.” He removed the ground handling wheel and pushed it off to the side. Sighing, he flipped the page and walked past the helicopter’s cabin. “Transmission fairing, position lights, air intake area, clear-of-debris,” he said, adopting a silly voice as he checked off the items. . .

Pratt rushed through the rest of the pre-flight checks. Same as the last hundred times he had done so. _The maintenance boys did a good job,_ he thought. _No point in second-guessing them._

He heard the padlock securing the hangar doors unlock and the clinking of a chain. With a grunt, the hangar doors were rolled to the side.

“Probie, thank God!” Pratt said, smiling. Bishop looked over, ever the skeptic, as Pratt pretended to review his pre-flight log. “Double-check the chopper. Can’t hurt to be thorough.”

Bishop didn’t say anything, just walked over and rolled open the other hangar door.

“Didja hear me, Probie?”

Bishop walked over to the wall of tools and pulled a copy of the log from one of the pins.

“Hey, Probie.”

“Pratt, I don’t know who this ‘Probie’ is, but my name is George. That’s Deputy Bishop to you.”

“ _Junior_ Deputy,” Pratt said. “Don’t get snippy, Boot.”

Bishop turned on his heel. “Boot? That’s rich. You—”

“Hey!” Hudson kicked the corrugated hangar door, causing both of the Deputies to flinch. “Taxpayer doesn’t pay you ladies to bitch. Are those pre-flight checks done yet?”

“Probie was just starting on ‘em,” Pratt said, poking his thumb over at Bishop. Hudson looked to Bishop.

“It’ll be done in fifteen minutes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Bishop. Pratt, go review the flight plan.”

“Joey, I already—”

“ _Pratt._ ”

“. . . Alright.”

~~

_Dear Father, please shield us from harm on this night,_ Sheriff Whitehorse prayed. Thoughts of Waco and Ruby Ridge plagued his mind. _Please, let these Deputies return unscathed from this test. Let this fool of a Marshal recognize the folly in his venture and let him reconsider. Please, Lord. Guide me. Guide us._

A knock at the door. Whitehorse opened his eyes.

“Come in,” he said, placing a hand on his desk. As his door opened, he grunted, pushing past the pain in his aching knees to stand.

“You okay there, Sheriff?”

“I was just praying, Marshal.” Whitehorse sat in his reclining chair and replaced his Stetson on his head.

“Hey, Sheriff. Relax. This whole thing will be over before you know it, and we’ll be famous.” Marshal Burke smiled as he sat across from the aging Sheriff. “They wouldn’t _dare_ fuck with the full faith and credit of the United States government.”  
Whitehorse just sighed, clenching and releasing his fists underneath the desk.

“When will your tardy Deps show up?”

“When they show up. In case you missed it on the drive up, this Department is in the middle of nowhere, Marshal. Calling all my little ducklings back to the roost takes time, especially on their off-days.”

“Well, call them and tell them to put the pedal to the metal. I want to make sure we make the arrest before daybreak, while those cult fucks are still sleeping.”

Whitehorse blinked. “Be my guest,” he said, gesturing towards his office’s landline.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Burke said, grabbing the receiver and turning the dock towards him. His finger hovered over the number pad for a moment before he said, “Now what number do I call?”

~~

  
A chiming bell announced Rook’s arrival to the station. She still wore her civilian clothes, but had her go-bag slung over her shoulder. The front desk was deserted. Rook went straight into the back, into the bullpen. She could see Sheriff Whitehorse’s silhouette through the frosted glass of his office windows, as well as a blob she took to be the U.S. Marshal. Off to the locker room.

Deputy Hudson was catching a few winks on the room’s solitary bench. It was supposed to be the end of her shift— _she deserves that much,_ Rook thought. Stopping at the doorway, she slipped off her trainers and quietly padded over to her locker. Slowly placing her go-bag on the floor, she began to rotate the padlock’s code wheel. _Sixteen, Twenty, Zero._ She pulled gently on the padlock. It didn’t release. Rook sighed. She gave the padlock a firmer pull and it released. . . with a loud _clang!_ Hudson stirred behind her.

Gingerly, Rook rotated the padlock and slipped it out, placing it on top of the locker. She unlatched the door and pulled it open as softly as she could, but the hinges screamed every step of the way.

“Mm. Hey, Rook.”

“Sorry,” Rook said.

“No, it’s okay. I was just trying to catch a power nap while I still can.”

“I understand.” Rook began to unbutton her flannel and pull the tail out of her waistband.

Hudson swung her legs over the side of the bench and sat up. “Don’t let me set a bad example. Hope County won’t accept you sleeping on the job.”

“I know,” Rook said. Rook heard Hudson pop some of her joints as she stretched. Meanwhile, Rook folded her flannel and stored it inside the locker. She grabbed two handfuls of her undershirt, but hesitated.

“Hey, let me give you some privacy,” Hudson said.

“I don’t mind,” Rook said. “We’re all ladies here.”

“Right. I didn’t want to assume.”

Rook bit her cheek and stripped off her undershirt. She bared her back to Hudson while she grabbed her clean, dark grey undershirt from her go-bag.

An uncomfortable moment passed.

“It’s okay to ask,” Rook said, rooting around for her work undershirt.

“You, uh, get those overseas?” Hudson asked.

“Yeah,” Rook said, pulling her undershirt over her head. She unbunched the fabric to cover the scarred-over bullet wounds on her abdomen. She didn’t volunteer anything else.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Rook said, putting her arm through the sleeve of her uniform shirt. She turned to look at Hudson. “Shit happens.” Rook gestured to Hudson’s arm with her head as she put her other arm through the other sleeve. “You serve?”

Hudson looked down at her forearm tattoo. It was a full-color, well-done piece depicting a bald eagle, wings spread and stylized as Old Glory. “No,” she said. “I’m a Reservist.”

“A Weekend Warrior,” Rook said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey,” Hudson said, smiling and pointing at her, “ _You’re_ still a Rook.”

“I’m _always_ a Rook,” Rook said, buttoning her shirt.

Hudson eyed her name tape. _ROOK_. “A Rookie named Rook. Doesn’t get better than that.”

Rook slipped out of her sweatpants and into her slacks. “I’m still jealous you and Pratt get to wear jeans,” she said.

“When you and Bishop finish the probationary period, then you can too,” she said. “But five dollars says Bishop wears the slacks anyway.”

“I don’t make a habit of taking losing bets,” Rook said, threading her leather belt through the belt-loops. “Is the buckle really a part of the uniform?”

Hudson chuckled and looked at the huge brass belt buckle, emblazoned with a five-pointed star and the words _HOPE COUNTY_ etched into it. “No,” she said. “But don’t tell the others I told you that.”

Rook shook her head as she buckled it, then put on her duty belt. Slipping her feet into the uniform’s cowboy boots, then slipping in her boot-knife, she reached down and pulled her service pistol from her go-bag, holstering it.

“You clean that recently?” Hudson asked.

“Every night,” Rook answered.

Hudson scoffed. “Sheriff should’ve had _you_ service the shotguns.”

Rook raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak, but someone knocked at the locker room door.

Sheriff Whitehorse cleared his throat. “When you’re ready, we’ll head out.”

The two Deputies listened to the Sheriff’s footsteps fade.

“No briefing?”

Hudson sucked in a breath. “Not ‘till we’re underway.”

Rook narrowed her eyes. “Must be big.” In the Army, that sort of thing meant a very sensitive operation was on the horizon.

“Don’t get excited. Big means bad.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. You ready?”

“Are you?”

~~

  
Bishop took the co-pilot seat while Pratt piloted. In the rear, the Marshal sat with his back to Bishop, and Whitehorse with his back to Pratt. Rook sat on the far back left, Hudson on the far back right. The back center seat was vacant, but prepared for a prisoner.

Bishop kept biting his tongue as Pratt maneuvered them through the steep hills of Montana. Pratt was. . . well, perfectly alright as a pilot. Adequate. Sufficient. Passable. Does the job. Still, all Bishop wanted to do was shout “My stick!” and take over.

Meanwhile, Rook watched a few videos on Hudson’s phone. She had to admit; they were pretty disturbing. Rook had heard of the cult before, obviously, but she was unaware of the full extent of its decadence, debauchery, and violent rhetoric.

In this video, a man secretly filming a sermon was discovered by the cult’s leader, one Joseph Seed, who gouged the man’s eyes out.

As it neared the ending, the video froze and the little spinning circle appeared in the center of the screen. Rook tapped the screen a few times, then swiped to display the bars.

“You’re wasting your time,” Whitehorse said. “There’s no signal out here.”

Rook locked the phone and handed it back to Hudson, carefully.

“Crossing over the Henbane now,” Pratt announced.

**Chapter 1 — The Doomsday Cult Blues**

* * *

“Oh, fuck, there he is,” Hudson said, nodding across the chopper. Coming into view was a large marble statue of the very man on the arrest warrant: Joseph Seed. The visage carved into stone, warm and inviting, fatherly and righteous, told that its sculptor well those passions read—or something like that. So lovingly detailed was the statue that Rook could even see the distinction between his clerical collar and the collar of his shirt. The sleeves of his coat even bunched and folded just like the genuine article. If not for the terrible portent of its subject, the statue might be regarded as a masterful work of sculpture. The marble itself had already begun to show some signs of weathering, but the statue stood resolute. His left hand open as if to emphasize a point, in his right, the Scripture, bearing the Peggy cross. Rook felt a chill run down her spine. _Big means bad,_ she thought. _Big means bad._

“Crazy motherfucker,” Pratt mumbled. 

“Jesus.”

“We’re officially in Peggy country.” Hudson shook her head.

“How much longer?” Burke asked, bouncing his leg.

“Just long enough for you to change your mind. . . so we can turn this bird around,” Whitehorse said.

“You want me to ignore a federal warrant, Sheriff?” Burke said, all full of piss and vinegar.

“No, sir,” Whitehorse said, shifting in his seat to look the Marshal directly in the eye. “I just want you to understand the reality of this situation. Joseph Seed; he’s not a man to be fucked with. We’ve had run-ins with him and his ilk before and they haven’t always gone our way. . .” Whitehorse cast a glance over to Hudson. “Just sometimes. . .” Whitehorse considered his words, “Sometimes it’s best just to leave well enough alone.” 

Burke pretended to mull it over. “Yeah, well, we have laws for a _reason_ , Sheriff—”

“Mm. . .”

“And Joseph Seed’s gonna _learn_ that.”

For a few moments, the helicopter was filled only with the dull sounds of the rotors and the dual turbine engines.

“Bishop, open a call to Dispatch.”

“Call to Dispatch, aye,” Bishop said, interacting with the instrument panel.

“Whitehorse to Dispatch, over.”

“Go ahead, Earl.” Nancy’s sweet old lady voice floated over the headsets.

“We’re approaching the compound, Nancy. Over.”

“Roger, Sheriff. You still planning to go through with this?”

“We are,” he sighed. “Unfortunately still trying to talk some sense into our friend the Marshal, over.”

“Alright,” Nancy said, punctuated by a few nervous chuckles. “He’s lucky I’m not there. You get into any trouble, you just let me know, over.”

“Ten-four, over and out,” Whitehorse said. With that, Bishop cut the call.

Another moment of relative silence.

Pratt glanced back at Hudson. “Maybe we should’ve brought Nancy along with us instead of the Probies, these Peggies wouldn’t fuck with _her_.”

“ _Pratt,_ ” Hudson said.

Pratt just scoffed.

“Why do you keep calling them Peggies?” Burke asked, annoyed.

“Project at Eden’s Gate; P.E.G.—Peggies. It’s what the locals call ‘em. . . You know, they started off harmless enough a few years back,” as Whitehorse spoke, Rook watched as Pratt produced a flask, popped the cap and took a sip. Hudson leaned over a bit and shot him a look, and he stowed it. “But now they’re armed to the teeth and _lookin’_ for a fight,” Whitehorse said, staring down the Marshal.

Marshal Burke stared back. “Are you scared, Sheriff?”

“You’d be a fool not to be,” Bishop said.

Burke turned to say something, but Pratt cut him off.

“We’re here. Compound’s just below.”

Rook looked to her left as Pratt brought the chopper in low and circled around. There was a classic white oak chapel serving as the crux of the compound. Just beyond, a covered walkway with buildings on either side. _Bunkhouses,_ Rook guessed. Along with a canteen, small gardening plots, an aged barn, sheds, and what looked like a bonfire, there were also a few small trailers and huts. _Real Branch-Davidian bullshit,_ she thought. As Pratt continued to bring the chopper in to a suitable landing zone, Rook saw that what she thought was a courtyard was actually a pen, and she could see lithe shapes moving about within. _Guard dogs?_

“Sweet Jesus,” Bishop muttered.

“This is a bad idea,” Hudson said.

“Last chance, Marshal,” Whitehorse said, sounding pleading yet resigned. Pratt and Bishop craned their heads around to look at Burke. Hudson gripped the fore-end of her 870 tight, turning her knuckles white. 

Burke sighed deeply, before looking straight up at Rook.

Rook kept her face neutral. _Don’t do it._

“We’re going in,” Burke announced.

The Sheriff bit his lip and broke eye contact, looking out through his window. Hudson closed her eyes, briefly, like a prisoner receiving the death sentence. Was she praying? Pratt just blinked dumbly, as if he were having trouble registering the Marshal’s words. Bishop made eye contact with Rook.

 _I bet he's wishing he had a couple door gunners packing Brownings,_ she thought. Rook took a deep breath to keep her heart rate low. _Hell, I do too._  
“Set her down,” Whitehorse said.

“. . .”

“ _Pratt,_ ” Whitehorse said, looking over his shoulder.

“Roger that,” Pratt said, closing the throttle and gently bringing the Bell LongRanger back to solid Earth. 

As the chopper descended, Rook saw several members of the cult; Peggies; milling about. Almost all of them wore what looked like home-made shirts with spray-painted stencils of the Peggy cross. Some had shotguns or rifles slung over their shoulder. All of them had handguns on their hips. One Peggy was using— _is that a flamethrower?_ —to set another bonfire alight. Other Peggies cheered and tossed things into the fire. _Books?_

The LongRanger gently rocked as the landing skids met the mud. Pratt let the chopper settle its weight onto the skids. Burke immediately went to unbuckle his seatbelt. Hudson kept her eyes on a couple of Peggies that were coming out to see the chopper. One had a shotgun, the other some kind of AR-platform rifle.

 _Wonder if they’ve modified them with the fun switch,_ Rook thought. 

“Dispatch, you still there?”

“Yes. Go ahead, Sheriff.”

Whitehorse hesitated for just a moment. “If you don’t hear from us in fifteen minutes, send in everyone. Call the Goddamned National Guard if you have to, over.”

“Yessir, Sheriff. . . I’ll be praying for you.”

With that, Bishop closed the channel again. Whitehorse removed his headset as Pratt brought the engines down to an easy idle. He motioned for the others to do the same.

“Now listen up!” he said. He held up his left hand in a fist. “Three rules: Stick close.” He held up one finger. “Keep your guns,” he made a finger-gun with his right hand and mimed holstering it, “In your holsters,” two fingers, “and finally:” he looked directly at Burke, “let me do the talking. Got it?”

“Got it,” Burke said, in such a way that inspired no confidence in his companions.

“Rook?” Whitehorse looked at her. Rook nodded, dutifully.

“Bishop?” Bishop gave a curt nod. His eyes were focused on the growing crowd of lookie-Lous and rubberneckers.

“Alright, everyone. Stay sharp. Let’s _go!_ ” Whitehorse went to pull open the door on his side, but Hudson got to it first, opening it for him. He gave her a slight nod of appreciation as Burke threw open the left-hand door and hopped out, full of righteous fire and federal fury.

Rook hopped out, keeping her head low. Whitehorse and Hudson circled around the front of the chopper, the former keeping one hand on his hat and the other on his gun. 

“He’ll be in the Church,” Whitehorse said, leading the way. “Pratt, keep the engines running. Everyone else, stick close. Eyes open.” He lowered his voice as Bishop, Burke, and Rook fell in behind him. “These folks can spook easy.”

“This ain’t right,” a woman muttered. Rook looked to her left; three women in those homespun Peggy shirts stood, scowling at her and the other Deputies. All were armed; one had a baseball bat strapped to her back. “We ain’t done nothing wrong,” one said. The bunkhouse behind them had a few picnic tables out front, water crates, and a few wooden crates stamped with that damned ubiquitous Peggy cross.

“Boot! On me. Keep it loose, huh?” Hudson said, walking with her 870 in a relaxed but alert stance. Bishop obeyed, falling in on her right. He had his thumbs hooked in his duty belt, but Rook saw that he kept his right hand close to his gun, and his left hand close to his radio. Not that his handheld had enough power to reach far, out here… 

“What are they doin’ here?” one of the Peggies called. Rook didn’t make eye contact, didn’t want to provoke, but she sized him up in her peripheral vision. Tall, muscular. Dirty tank top painted with the Peggy cross, because of course it was. Bald, prodigious beard. He wore several gold chains, each with a cross affixed to it. Gun on his hip. He was brandishing a socket wrench like a club. Just behind him, a Peggy wearing a duster. He had an AR carbine at rest position, finger out of the trigger guard. _Ex-military?_ _Probably has a sidearm, too._ To the left of him, another Peggy on an outdoors couch, an AK-platform rifle strapped to his back as he sharpened a knife. Behind him, the Peggy with, yes, a fucking flamethrower. Another Peggy with a shotgun. The bunkhouse had metal letters reading ‘Luxuria’ above the door. The bunkhouse on the left side read ‘Avaritia.’ _Lust and Avarice._

A white Chevy pickup with the Peggy cross spray-painted on the door—no, not spray painted. That was an honest-to-God decal. She could see a pistol laying on the dashboard and bet it wasn’t properly registered. Another Peggy in that dumb homespun Peggy pride shirt leaned against the truck, giving her an eye she had seen one too many times in dive bars. _Don’t make eye contact. Don’t provoke._

“Be calm,” Whitehorse said. “Stay calm! Everyone go about your business! This doesn’t concern you,” he continued, passing under the entrance to the walkway with a steady gait. 

‘Church of Eden’s Gate,’ the sign above the gateway read. One of the doors was closed, but the other was pulled open. Another Peggy in a duster guarded it. He tried to look nonchalant, but his hand kept wandering towards the M1A slung over his shoulder.  
Rook cast a glance over her shoulder, back towards the LongRanger. The women from the bunkhouse were walking out behind them. Several Peggies were circling around the helicopter like vultures. _I wish they left Bishop with the chopper instead of Pratt… I trust Bishop not to cut and run._

Dogs were barking. Several. They were getting louder and rowdier. Rook kept pace with the other Deputies. She focused her gaze on the patch on Burke’s ballistic vest. “U.S. MARSHAL.” 

“Sheriff, I don’t like this,” Hudson said.

“Everything’s fine, Hudson. Everything’s just fine.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re wearing badges, aren’t you?” Burke antagonized. 

“Yeah, but they don’t much respect badges out here,” Hudson said.

“They’ll respect a _nine millimeter,_ ” Burke said, patting his Glock.

The small party passed a row of piled sandbags and a Peggy on a bench wielding a ten-gauge sawed-off. Definitely illegal. Rook bit her lip. Looking ahead, a Peggy was loading .308 rounds into a Remington rifle. That would shred right through the Marshal’s soft ballistic vest. Hell, Rook’s .45 might even penetrate it on a good day. 

Now that Rook entered the courtyard before the Chapel’s doors, the dog’s barking was its loudest. Several angry guard dogs lunged at the fences separating them from the Deputies, snapping their jaws. The Peggies looked just as vicious, if not as loud. 

“What’re you doing here?!” someone shouted off to the right. Bishop half-turned; it was just another Peggy on the other side of the fence.

“Easy, Bishop,” Hudson said.

“We don’t want none of your business,” the woman said, and spat at Bishop’s feet. Bishop didn’t deign to reply, just fell back in with Hudson.

As Rook approached the doors, she could hear from within dozens of voices, some on-key, some off, singing ‘Amazing Grace.’ _Who has a service at 3 AM on a Tuesday morning?_

“Now why cain’t they just leave us’n peace?” a Peggy off to Rook’s left grumbled. He leaned against the grill of another white truck. Rook saw a Peggy cross medallion looped over the rear-view mirror.

“Just have faith. The Father will take care of them,” his buddy said.

Burke grabbed the door handle and began to pull, but Whitehorse reached out and pushed it shut.

“Whoa, Marshal,” he said. “Now, we do this, we do it my way: Quietly. _Calmly._ You got it?”

Hudson scanned her eyes across the way, watching the Peggies for any sudden moves. Bishop listened and tried to guess the number of worshipers inside the chapel. Rook studied the doors; weather-beaten paint, and someone had been carving statements into the wood. At a glance, she could only make out individual letters—

“Hudson and Bishop, on the door. Watch our backs; don’t let any of these people get in. Rook, on me. And you,” Whitehorse said, turning to Burke, “Just. . . Try not to do anything stupid.”

Burke snorted. He took his hand off his Glock and patted the Sheriff on the shoulder. “Relax, Sheriff. You’re about to get your name in the papers.”

 _In the Obituaries, maybe,_ Rook thought.

Whitehorse held Burke’s gaze for a moment, then went to pull open the double doors.

As Rook moved to fall in behind the Sheriff, Hudson put her free hand on the former’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she said with a nod. Hudson looked at Bishop and gestured with her head.

As the chapel’s doors opened, the volume of the voices grew and grew, until they finished their line, then they faded.

A voice. Calm. Prophetic. “Something is coming.” Rook took in every detail of the room as fast as she could, counting heads. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

Burke kept his hand on his Glock and looked to the Sheriff. Whitehorse slowly put one foot in front of the other, his boots causing the floorboards to bow ever so slightly and emit a diseased creak with every step. Burke fell in step, then Rook. Whitehorse kept his hand off his pistol. Burke gripped the handle of his so tightly, Rook thought his black latex glove would split open at the knuckle. The three Peggies nearest the entrance, in that same, raggedy garb, turned to face the intruders. One held an M4 in his hands. Definitely looked like bootleg surplus. One had an ammo rack for shotgun shells sewn into the sleeve on his jacket. 

“We are creeping toward the edge,” the voice, Joseph Seed’s voice, continued. Rook could see him from where she stood, but not his face. Light shone in from a Peggy cross-shaped window—no, not window, it was the dead of night, a light—from above and behind him. Bits of loose straw and muddy boot-prints dirtied the floor. To the left, a rack of candles, currently extinguished. To the right, crates and stacks of white-bound books, bearing that damn Peggy cross.

“And there _will be_ a reckoning.”

Shotshell-sleeve backed off as Burke stepped forward, slowly. Rook could hear her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. _Fight off that tunnel vision. Head on a swivel, but don’t look like it. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t provoke._

_Three, four, five, six, seven, eight. More. More in the wings. Seven rounds, and one in the chamber. Three spare magazines. Twenty-nine shots._

“That’s why we started the Project.” _Shoot the AR guy first. Take that, turn it on the others. At least twenty-nine rounds. One burst will send everyone to ground. Time to think. What about them on the door?_ “Because we know what happens next.” Whitehorse and Burke continued forward. A Peggy on the right wrung her hands. Rook watched her out of the corner of her eye. “They will come for us.” Burke brought up his hand as if to ask something, but Whitehorse shook his head. “Take our guns. Take our _freedom._ ”

As Rook’s eyes adjusted to the light in the room, she saw that her count was off—the pews were packed. And each member of this fucked-up congregation was probably packing. The Peggies stood, one by one, from the pews, as Joseph Seed continued his sermon.

“Take our _Faith!”_

Rook stepped in closer to the Sheriff. If the lead started flying, fuck Burke. 

“But we will _not_ let them!”

At this angle, Rook could see more of Joseph Seed. He stood, shirtless, bearing his tattoos and scars to the congregation. Rook could see a crown, and words, but didn’t have the time to read them. She looked left, right. 

“Sheriff, c’mon,” Burke began, but Whitehorse wasn’t having it.

“Just you hold on, Marshal.”

“We will not let their _greed!_ ” Joseph Seed paused for dramatic effect. It was like a pantomime of the cadence of other clergymen. “Or their _immorality,_ ” picking up the pace, “or their _depravity_ hurt us any _more!_ ”

“Sheriff. . .”

“Do not—. Remain calm,” Whitehorse said, holding his hands up in a desperate attempt to defuse the situation. 

“There will be no more _suffering!_ ”

“Nah, fuck this,” Burke said. 

“There—”

“ _Joseph Seed!_ ” Burke called. The ‘preacher’ paused. “I have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of kidnapping with intent to harm, numerous violations of the National Firearms Act, and more.” Rook could hear movement behind and to the sides of her. She bit her tongue. She tasted iron. “Now, I want you to step forward and keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”

Joseph Seed began to raise his hands, and Rook could see that while he wore a holster, it was currently empty. _Bastard’s too calm._

“You go back to where you came from!” called a Peggy. “Get out of here!” shouted another.

“Here they are,” Joseph Seed said. “The Locusts in our garden.” Two Peggies stepped between Burke and their Prophet. They were joined by a third, a fourth. . . Many more. “They’ve come for me. They’ve come to take me away from you.” Rook saw the bald bearded Peggy among the human wall. One of the duster-wearing Peggies had a belt of 7.62 ammo draped across his shoulders like a morbid scarf. “They’ve come to destroy all that _you_ have built!”

And like dropping a match into a fuel tank, the Peggies broke out into shouts and jeers. “Now hold on,” Whitehorse began to say, but one of them reached out to grab Burke, prompting Burke to step back and go for his Glock. Whitehorse backed away and raised his right hand. “Do not touch that service weapon!” he shouted, to the Peggies or Burke or both. Several of the Peggies in the human wall were brandishing their firearms. At least one had pulled a pistol and racked the slide.

“Put your guns down!” Burke ordered, shouted down and drowned out by the jeers of the Peggies. 

“Stand down!” Whitehorse shouted. “Stand down! Everyone just _calm down!”_

Rook cast a glance back towards the doors, which were blocked by Peggies wielding long arms. It took every modicum of strength in her not to go for her Colt.

Suddenly, the shouting stopped.

Rook snapped her head back. Joseph Seed had parted the human wall like the Red Sea and was stepping towards Burke and the Sheriff. Joseph Seed looked to his flock as another man paced on the pulpit near the Prophet’s podium.

“We knew this moment would come,” Joseph said. The trenchcoat-wearing man was joined by another wearing desert tri-color. _John and Jacob Seed_ , Rook thought, thinking back to the file photos the Sheriff had shown her. In another moment, a woman in a white dress appeared. _Faith,_ Rook gathered, but didn’t recognize her from the photo. “We have prepared for it. Go,” Joseph said.

The Peggies looked to their Prophet, some with disbelief, some with tears in their eyes.

 _“Go,”_ Joseph said again.

One Peggy stepped forward and walked past Burke and the Sheriff, shouldering past Rook. Then a second. Then they all began walking, the floorboards creaking in response. Rook put her hand on her gun to ensure none of the Peggies would grab it as they walked around her. One roughly shoulder-checked her as he passed, but she didn’t stumble or react. So focused was she, she didn’t even hear Joseph say, “God will not let them take me.” Rook turned back to the mad priest.

“I saw when the Lamb opened the first Seal, and I heard, as it were the noise of Thunder, one of the beasts say ‘Come and see!’” 

“ _Step forward,_ ” Burke ordered. 

“And I _saw!”_ Joseph continued, stepping toward Burke. His three siblings arrayed behind him, an unholy Trinity. Joseph stuck his finger in Burke’s face. “. . . and behold. It was a White horse,” he said, looking over at the Sheriff. Then, slowly, he turned to look at Rook. “And _Hell_ followed with him,” he finished, reaching out his hands. Rook couldn’t tell if he was pointing to her or offering his wrists. A kind of rosary hung limply from his hand. 

“Rookie,” Burke said. “Cuff this son of a bitch.”

A moment’s hesitation. Rook studied the man. Tattooed symmetrical birds on his clavicles. An ornate crown just below that. A radiant mountain, labelled ‘Eden.’ Flowing script she couldn’t read. Scar tissue forming the word ‘Lust’ just above his belt. Only a moment’s hesitation.

Rook stepped forward, looking Joseph Seed in the eyes as she retrieved her cuffs from the back of her duty belt. In her peripheral, the three Seed siblings. Jacob, in the tri-color, had a Beretta on a thigh rig. John was wearing a trenchcoat. Could be concealing a weapon. Faith was barefoot, but could be hiding a pistol under that dress. Besides the Seeds, Rook, Burke, and the Sheriff, the room was clear.

Rook grabbed Joseph Seed’s right hand with her left and slapped a cuff on it. Suddenly, Joseph grabbed her right hand with his own.

“God will not let you take me.”

Rook cuffed his right hand.

“Sometimes the best thing to do,” Joseph said, as Rook circled around him, placing her left hand on his bicep and her right on his left shoulder, “is to walk away.”

Burke nodded his approval, while Whitehorse just took a deep breath. Rook walked the Prophet down the aisle towards the double doors. She could barely hear the dogs barking any more. Was that better? Worse?

The Sheriff and Burke pushed the double doors open.

Hudson was standing a ways away from the door, her hand on her service pistol. Bishop had the 870 now. A white Ford Ranger pulled up, and several Peggies hopped out of the truck bed, armed to the teeth with what Rook would bet were Class 3 NFA weapons. And they didn’t look pre-’86.

“We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Hudson said, whipping around. 

The gates they entered through were now closed. 

“Marshal, take point,” Whitehorse said. “We’re going right.”

“On it.”

“You can’t take him!” a woman shrieked, sounding distraught. Rook had heard that kind of tone when she would arrest a son right in front of their mother. “We won’t let you!”

Whitehorse put himself between the new arrivals and Rook. “Stay on the path, Rookie!” he called, as he forced one of the Peggies to take a step back.

Hudson power-walked to keep up with the Marshal, checking over her shoulder to see if Bishop was behind her. He was.

Joseph Seed didn’t resist as Rook continued to walk him forward, in the center of their little formation. He kept his head high and his eyes forward. 

“They’re taking the Father! They’re taking the Father!” one of the new arrivals shouted. Looking to the left, the once-closed fence that penned in the guard dogs were now open. The occupants were nowhere to be seen, but one handler had his dog on a leash, and it snapped at Rook as she walked by. 

When Marshal Burke turned the corner and saw the gathering crowd, he pulled his Glock. “Step back!” he ordered. “Step back!”

One of the Peggies put her hands on her head, as if she were watching her childhood home be engulfed in flames. The others watched on with barely concealed fury.

“You can’t take him!” one of the men shouted, rushing Burke. Burke grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him to the side, throwing him to the ground.

“Easy, Burke!”

“What are you doing?!” one of the men shouted, beginning to step forward.

“Stay back!” Bishop shouted, cowing the man back into line. 

“No, you can’t. . .” a woman began to cry, reaching out and barely touching Joseph with her fingers before crumpling to the ground and beginning to weep. Rook pulled him to the left. 

“Step back, ma’am!” she said, as another reached out for the Prophet. Rook began to walk Joseph in a rough zig-zag pattern, keeping him out of arm’s reach of any of the Peggies.

“Rookie, keep up,” Hudson said, all wound up. Burke kept waving his gun around while Bishop looked back and waited for Rook to catch up.

“I am a _Federal Marshal,_ and I am ordering you to _stand back!_ ”

Not a moment after the words left his mouth, either a rock or a cow pie struck Burke in the face. He stumbled. _Rock._

“Burke! Weapons out!” the Sheriff said. Hudson whipped out her Colt Commander and closed up with the Sheriff. Bishop leveled the 870 at a Peggy that was getting too close for comfort, scaring the kid off. Burke was recovering. Rook just pushed Joseph forward, but the Prophet tried to maintain a leisurely pace, as if on a pleasure stroll. More rocks began to fly, and Rook felt a painful thud against her back. She grunted, but shoved Joseph forward. Bishop dodged a rock thrown his way. “Get him to the chopper!” Whitehorse ordered.

“Come on,” Rook said, forcing Joseph faster towards the waiting LongRanger. Pratt had already opened the throttle and brought the rotors up to speed.

“Damnit, _stand back!_ ” Burke said, raising his Glock into the air and firing twice. The Peggy nearest Burke fell onto his ass, startled by the noise. Everyone ducked or started. Rook pulled her Colt and shoved the muzzle into Joseph’s back. The Prophet got the message. Rook ran him to the chopper as Hudson caught Bishop’s tossed 870. She climbed in first. “Come on, Rook, get in!” She secured the shotgun then helped Rook force Joseph Seed into the chopper, securing him in the middle seat. 

“Pratt!” Whitehorse shouted.

“Fucking Peggies!” Burke screamed, blood running down his face. 

“Get us out of here!”

“Close the fucking door!”

“Climb! Climb!”

“Fuck it, my stick!” Bishop shouted, grabbing the flight stick and taking control of the chopper.

Peggies were climbing onto the landing skids and grabbing at Rook and Burke.

“Get them off, we’re exceeding load limits!” Bishop shouted, watching the instrument panel carefully even as sweat burned in his eyes.

“Nancy, Nancy, come in Nancy!” Whitehorse shouted.

The LongRanger lifted off the ground, but only slightly. Rook checked briefly to make sure Seed wasn’t trying anything, then turned to one of the Peggies, which had a grip on her shirt, tearing open some of the buttons as he held on only by her sleeve. His other hand grabbed her arm and he pulled himself in close; Rook still had her Colt out. She struck the Peggy in the face with the muzzle of her Colt, and instantly the Peggy released his grip, falling a few feet onto the mud. Looking over, she saw that another Peggy had a hold of Burke’s arm and was threatening to pull him out of the chopper. 

“No, no, no! Oh Jesus, fuck!” Burke pulled the trigger, firing his Glock into the man’s rib-cage at point-blank range. The man seized Burke tighter, but only for a moment. He let go and fell just like the other. Another Peggy that had held onto the landing skids pulled herself up, reaching across Rook and grabbing a hold of Joseph’s cuffs.

“Get off! Get off! Get off!” Pratt shouted from the front.

“Get her off!” Hudson shouted, seizing the Peggy’s wrist. Rook raised her arm and elbow-struck the top of the Peggy’s head. When she still didn’t let go, Rook used her elbow to strike the back of the Peggy’s neck. Rook heard a crack and the Peggy went limp. Rook shoved her out of the chopper. 

“Ama. . . zing Grace,” Joseph began to sing.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Rook and Hudson heard the latch—another Peggy was trying to open the right-hand cabin door. Hudson planted her boot on the door as a stop-gap before Whitehorse turned and took a hold of the inner latch. Looking forward, a shirtless Peggy, the Peggy cross painted or tattooed onto his chest, was holding onto the windshield even as the helicopter rose higher and higher.

“Pratt, get him off! Get him off or we’ll—”

As Pratt pulled his service pistol, the man either jumped or was sucked into the rotor’s updraft. In a moment, the front windshield was sprayed with blood and viscera while several warning lights and indicators began lighting up on the instrument panels.

“Shit,” Bishop spat. “Buckle in! Brace! Brace! Going down.” Bishop fought with the control stick and the level control even as the chopper began to spin.

Pratt screamed and screamed. Whitehorse buckled his seatbelt and checked the others even as the centrifugal force pushed him back into his seat. Joseph looked towards the heavens and never stopped singing, even as Burke began to cry out in terror. Rook double-checked her seat-belt and looked over. Hudson had put her back into her seat. Rook holstered her Colt and reached across Joseph, putting her hand on Hudson’s back, pushing it forward. She resisted at first, not realizing what was happening, but looked over to Rook, who just nodded. Hudson let Rook push her so that her head was between her knees. Whitehorse watched and did the same. Rook placed her hand on Joseph’s neck and pushed his head forward. He didn’t resist. Burke couldn’t see; he had shut his eyes tight. Rook didn’t worry about him. Looking ahead, Pratt was still panicking. Bishop was stubbornly fighting the controls to make the crash-landing as safe as possible. _That others may live,_ she thought. Rook leaned as far forward as she could get and placed her head between her knees. 

“Brace!” Bishop repeated. “Pratt! Brace! _Pratt, brace!_ ”

Pratt shook his head and braced himself against the instrument panel.

“Impact!” Bishop shouted, a moment before—

~~

Darkness. Hints of red-orange. 

“. . .in. . . This is Nancy. . . Is everything okay? Over.”

Rook’s eyes fluttered open. Dimly, slowly, they focused on the colors and shapes before her. Burke hung, arms limply dangling from side-to-side, suspended by his seatbelt. He looked to have suffered a terrible blow to the head, on top of the rock-hit from earlier. Her seatbelt cut into her waist. _Upside-down,_ she thought.

Rook’s breath came in raspy, but there was little pain in her chest. Was that good, or the adrenaline? Rook felt for her holster—her gun was gone. She looked to her right. Hudson was out cold, but she couldn’t see any major wounds. Hudson. Hudson. _Where’s—_

“Please, are you there?”

Rook shook her head, wiped sweat or blood out of her eyes. She strained to reach the hanging headset that was in front of her. 

“Are you there? Are you there?!”

It was just beyond her grasp. With her other hand, Rook pressed on her chest and abdomen. No immediate problem spots. 

“Deputy Hudson, if you’re there, please pick up.”

Rook looked around. No pain. That’s good. No Seed. That’s bad. Rook looked up—down? She could see firelight glinting off the slide of her gun. She reached down—up? towards it, but her fingers could only scrape the grip. Rook looked down to the buckle of her seatbelt. Her fingers tried to pull open the latch, but, _no, damnit, no. Damn thing's stuck._

“Ama. . . zing _Grace_. . .” Rook froze, and moved her head around. She couldn’t see Joseph Seed, but she could hear him. “How sweet. . . the sound. . .”

“Deputy Pratt, are you there?” called the headset. Rook tried again to reach it, trying to wiggle her body downwards, to free herself just a bit more from the belt—she slipped a bit through, grabbed the—yes!

But no sooner had she grabbed the headset than a hand grabbed hers. The forearm attached to it was bare. ‘WRATH’ was carved into it. Joseph Seed’s face, with his broken sunglasses, came into view. 

“That saved. . .” Joseph Seed had her gun.

“Earl, come in! Please!” She had none.

“A wretch. . . like me,” Rook stayed still as a corpse, staring Joseph Seed down.

“Please, uh,” Nancy sniffled, “A-are you there? Somebody, please!”

Joseph knocked the headset out of Rook’s hand. It swung away, then swung back. For a moment, neither moved. Joseph’s lip twitched. Anger? Joy? Amusement?

Joseph grabbed Rook by the throat. The moment Rook felt the pressure, Rook flexed every muscle in her neck, stopping Joseph from compressing her trachea. 

“I told you that God wouldn’t let you take me.”

“Please! I need to know what’s going on!”

Joseph relaxed his grip on Rook’s neck, then let go. He reached back and grabbed the swinging headset; brought the microphone to his lips.

“Dispatch,” he said, keeping eye contact with Rook. 

“Oh my God.”

“Everything is just fine here. . . No need to call anyone.”

A moment of silence.

 _Send everyone. Send the National Guard. Call the fucking Army,_ Rook thought.

“Yes, Father.” Rook’s eyes widened. “Praise be to You.”

Joseph Seed let the headset go. Again, it swung away, lifeless. He brought his free hand to Rook’s cheek. She narrowed her eyes. A million different scenarios of what lay before her flashed behind her eyes. None of them good. He leaned in close. Rook could smell his sweat through the soot and the fire and the oil. She didn’t pull back or flinch. The muscles in her face twitched involuntarily with rage.

“No-one-is-coming-to-save-you,” Joseph Seed whispered. 

Both heard the sound of approaching vehicles. Doors opening. Joseph let go of Rook and passed Hudson, exiting the wreck, slipping Rook’s Colt into his thigh holster.

“Father!” someone called out. Another let out a cheer as Joseph stood before them.

“God has kept you under the shadow of his wings!”

Rook looked at Hudson. She had an abrasion on her cheek and a cut on her lip, but the brace saved her from the worst. The way her eyes were moving under her eyelids, she was just about to regain consciousness. Rook continued to pry at the latch of her seatbelt as she watched Joseph call his followers to him.

“Everything is unfolding according to God’s plan. I am still here with you! The First Seal has been broken!”

Hudson moaned in pain. “Wuh—. . . Wha?”

“Shh!” Rook hissed, breathing heavy. _It’s stuck, damnit, stuck!_ Her fingers continued to scrape at the belt’s latch from every conceivable angle as she watched the Peggies surround Joseph. The Prophet climbed onto the hood of a Peggy truck and raised his arms to the heavens.

“The Collapse has begun!” He looked down to his flock. “We will take what we need. And we will preserve what we have.”

Burke began coughing across from Rook. She looked over, looked back.

“Hudson. Can you unlatch your seatbelt?” Rook whispered.

“Huh?” Hudson looked over at Rook, her eyes unfocused.

 _Concussed,_ Rook thought. “Unlatch your seatbelt,” she said, as she continued to work on her own. The Sheriff was still out. Debris blocked her view of Bishop and Pratt. _Bishop. . ._

“. . .and we will kill all those who stand in our way!”

Hudson reached up to her seatbelt and tried to unlatch it, but either hers was jammed as well, or she lacked the fine motor control to operate it in her current state.

“We gotta get out of here,” Burke whispered.

Rook pulled one last time at her belt, but couldn’t unlatch it. Instead, she reached over and grabbed a hold of Hudson’s leg, trying to get at her seatbelt for her. _If I can just get Hudson free,_ she thought.

“And these. . . harbingers. . . of Doom will see _the Truth!_ ” Joseph shouted, his voice becoming ever more intense with each syllable.

_“Begin the Reaping!”_

Each of the Peggies turned on their heels, invigorated and roaring. They charged to the downed helicopter just as Rook unlatched Hudson’s belt. She fell onto the roof of the chopper, grunting and coughing. The Peggies had their hands all over her before she could recover herself, pulling her. Rook grabbed Hudson’s leg and tried to pull back, but it was no use and she knew it. 

“Get the fuck off me!” she screamed, and kept screaming. They pulled her out through the shorn-off door and out of Rook’s sight.

“Don’t touch me!” Rook heard Pratt shout. She didn’t hear anything from Bishop. The Sheriff, unconscious or worse, was released and pulled from the wreckage next. Another crash, and Burke was gone before Rook even knew it. _Rat bastard,_ she thought. She continued to fight with her own seatbelt as a beanie-wearing Peggy reached in to grab at her.

In that moment, fire flared up from the ground, likely from a fuel leak. The Peggy fell back, screaming, as the doorway spewed flames. _God won’t let you take me,_ she thought. _I won’t let you take me._

“Let them burn!” Joseph shouted. “This is God’s will. This is their punishment!”

 _Think, Rook, think._ The flames were rising. _People die when they panic. Think. Stay calm. Control your breathing. The latch is jammed shut. Got to cut the belt open. You have a knife. You have two._ Rook pulled up her left pant-leg and jerked her boot-knife out. There would be time later to ridicule herself for not thinking of it earlier. That time was not now. _Stay calm. Don’t cut yourself. Don’t add to your problems._

Carefully, she faced the blade away from her and sawed at the seatbelt. It came loose, sending Rook to the ceiling of the helicopter. She hit her shoulder hard, but didn’t even feel it. She was lucky she didn’t fall on her knife. In a moment, she was on her hands and knees, crawling out of the wreckage. The moment she was clear, she cast a look back to the co-pilot's seat. The door was open, and the seat was empty. Had the Peggies gotten Bishop? Did he escape? No time to worry. 

_Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape._

Rook pushed herself to her feet and sprinted into the brush. 

“Whoa, whoa, hey! They’re getting away!”

 _Pop. Pop-pop._ Gunshots. _Pa-pa-pop!_ Dirt kicked up around her feet. _They have fun-switches,_ she thought, zig-zagging through the underbrush and between the pines. Splinters flew as the Peggies continued to fire at her—

“Ah!” Rook grunted as she fell forward, feeling like a bull had gored her left shoulder. Not wasting even a nanosecond, Rook was up and running again.

Gunfire dogged her as she continued to get farther from the wreck, traveling more-or-less directly away from the site. The light of the spreading fire faded. As soon as the bullets stopped hitting close to her, Rook stopped, looking left and right. The Montana woods were dense and thick. Pines, firs, and others. _Left. No better than right. Pick it and stick to it._

Rook rushed to the left. She heard her pursuers continue on straight, and she slowed her pace and adjusted to the right.

Stepping over large roots, avoiding bad patches of earth—Rook caught herself on a branch as her foot lost traction. _Damn cowboy boots,_ she thought. She’d have to switch these out at the first opportunity. Rook reached her right hand up and touched her left shoulder, which exploded in pain. Her hand came away bloody. _Damn,_ she thought. _Can’t stop yet. Not safe. Push on._

“The Father protects us!” a Peggy shouted. He was far-off. But not that far. “Who protects you?!”

More gunshots.

The grade changed. Rook was walking down an incline. A road! A fence. Twelve feet high, topped with two rows of barbed wire. _No time to dig under. Nothing to cut through it._ Rook kept the road in her peripheral, traveling along it through the trees. It was hard to hear over the pounding of blood in her ears, but she forced through the sensation. Nobody close. 

Rook leaned her right shoulder against a tree as she took a breath. _This is an island,_ she thought, moving again, _The road’s fenced in, but am I? Find my way to the Henbane, float downstream or cross. Find a car in Fall’s End. Make my way to Missoula. Will there be roadblocks? How far can the Peggies reach? They got Nancy; who else?_

A light ahead. A small fire. A shotgun-style trailer. Rook approached cautiously. She froze and knelt as she heard a car passing along the road. Headlights here, then gone. Rook stood and continued. A large boulder shielded her from the fire. Carefully, she crept around it, leaning around for a better view. Past the boulder were several stacks of timber and a few stumps. One of the stumps had an axe stuck into it. Looking. . . One man. Alone. He had a cigarette in his mouth and dressed like all the other Peggies; homeless-chic. He stepped over to one of the big firs and unzipped his pants, his back to Rook.

 _Too perfect,_ she thought. _But what choice do I have?_

She stalked closer and closer to the axe, glancing around for other Peggies. She didn’t see any. Her fingers closed around the handle of the axe, and she paused, looking over to the Peggy. Waiting. The Peggy started pissing, the stream splashing against dead leaves and pooling. Just enough noise to cover Rook wrenching the axe out of the stump, her left arm screaming in protest at every movement. 

She stepped closer to the Peggy, pulling the axe up onto her shoulder. The Peggy just whistled and continued to take a leak.

Rook raised the axe, then sunk it into the top of the Peggy’s head. He sputtered and shook, for a moment. Rook reached forward and grabbed his gun before he fell. A Smith & Wesson revolver. Six shots. The Peggy fell over, gibbering quietly. Rook didn’t have the time to worry about him. She entered the shitty trailer looking for spare ammunition. She wasn’t going to touch the Peggy’s piss-soaked corpse. She leaned into the doorway, sweeping the trailer with the revolver. Empty. Stepping inside, dirt literally covered the floor. A ratty couch with a pillow and blanket on it served as the centerpiece of the room, along with an extremely weathered auditorium chair. In the far corner, pallets were stacked with a locked toolbox on top. She approached, checking the window—nobody that she could see—switching her grip on the revolver and smashing the padlock open. Inside: booty. Two speedloaders with .357. Rook pocketed them, then gently went through the open window. 

Looking back, she couldn’t see any of her pursuers, nor hear them. There was a nearby bonfire, however. One of the many she had seen from the air. She approached quietly, hoping there would be a truck nearby.

“Hello?” a voice crackled in her earpiece. Burke. _Of all the people in that chopper, the one to get away. . ._

“I think I lost them,” he continued. Rook debated responding, but decided against it. He might have been caught and is transmitting under duress. “I see a small farmhouse nearby. . . It’s next to a long bridge. I’m gonna try to get inside. If anyone’s still out there. . . Listen, if anyone’s still alive. . .” Rook circled the bonfire at a safe distance. Two were down by the bonfire itself. Rook could see a third up a small footpath with a flashlight. Burke didn’t say anything more.

Rook pulled her Glock-knife from her belt, approaching the two men from the back.

“I think I found a trail!” The Peggy up the footpath shouted.

The two men perked up, and the kneeling one stood. _Now or never,_ she thought. 

Rook sprang forward, sinking her knife into the left Peggy’s throat, whipping the right Peggy over the head with the revolver. The left Peggy gurgled, falling to his knees, while the right fell over, but wasn’t out. 

“Hey!” The Peggy up the path was bringing his rifle to bear.

 _Bang!_ He dropped. Rook turned the revolver on the Peggy at her feet. _Bang!_

Clicking the safety on, Rook stuffed the revolver in the back of her belt—it wouldn’t fit her holster. Her ears were beginning to ring. She reached down and grabbed the Glock knife, wrenching it out of the other Peggy’s throat, wiping the excess blood off on his shirt before sheathing it. She saw that one of the Peggies had a 1911, so she grabbed and holstered it. She patted him down and found his spare magazines, and pocketed them, keeping them separate from the revolver’s speedloaders. 

Rook listened for a moment. No running feet, no shouting voices. Still, the crackling bonfire might have been drowning them out. Rook advanced on the Peggy up the footpath, grabbing his M4. She pulled the spare magazines from his belt and stuffed them in hers. She checked the safety on the M4, then made sure a round was chambered. She turned off the mounted flashlight. 

Rook continued up the footpath for roughly two minutes, listening for any pursuers. Ahead, the farmhouse Burke had mentioned.

 _Trap, no trap?_ She thought.

Would hooking up with Burke make things better or worse?

_Worse, but. . . Can’t just leave a man behind._

Rook advanced on the house, pointing the rifle at the doorway. Her eyes scanned the windows and the outhouse. No movement. The inside was dark. She looked to her left and saw a carport with one of those white Peggy trucks. _Nice._

_Keys inside?_

Rook approached the door, leaning her ear against it. She heard no movement inside. Trying the latch, she found no resistance. Gently, she pushed the door open, shouldering the rifle. No response. She leaned to the right, could see furniture. No people. 

Rook stepped inside. The door slammed against her; she stumbled into the wall. She began to turn, but hands grabbed her rifle, pushing her up against the wall. Her right hand left the rifle, going for her sidearm as her attacker screamed in her face, but she paused. It was just Burke.

Burke realized this a moment later, releasing the rifle and quieting down.

“Ah! Jesus Christ. . .” Burke heaved in breath after breath, “Rook. I’m sorry. . . Ah. . . I thought they got you,” he said, leaning forward, placing his hands on his knees, utterly exhausted.

 _No thanks to you,_ Rook thought, but bit her tongue. It wouldn’t help anything.

“Come on,” Burke said, stumbling towards a door leading further into the house. “Come on!”

Rook held up her hand. She offered him the Smith & Wesson. He took it with a nod. Rook brought the rifle back to her shoulder, and watched dumbly as Burke just threw open the door and stumbled through, revolver in hand.

Rook bit her tongue again as she followed him in, checking her corners and stepping into the side room, sweeping and clearing it before coming back out.

“Check the rooms, Rook,” Burke said, leaning against a half-wall to regain some energy.

Rook moved into the other bedroom. “Clear,” she said, exiting to the main room.

“Oh Jesus,” Burke said, almost hyperventilating. “I had no idea!” he said between pants. 

Rook wanted to say a lot, but didn’t. She just watched out one window, then the next. Let him catch his breath. She started scanning the table and counter-tops for the keys to the truck outside. 

“Fuck!” Burke hissed. He stumbled over to the wall and pulled a family portrait of the Seeds off its mounting. “We’re putting this whole family away. All of ‘em!” Burke spat on the frame. “Fucking _lunatics._ ” He tossed the picture aside. 

“We’re gonna get out of this, Rookie. First thing’s first; let’s get armed.” Burke took an AR off the wall and slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed an M1911 off the nightstand. He press-checked it, stuffed it in his holster, then knelt by one of the windows. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get some wheels. We’re gonna take the road northeast. It’s probably only a few hours back to Missoula. And then,” Burke said, grabbing Rook by both shoulders, “And then, we’re gonna come back here with the Goddamned National Guard and take out the rest of these—”

“Shh,” Rook hissed, casting a glance out the window.

“. . . came this way. Check inside!”

“Okay,” Burke said, nodding. He went to move but— _In front of the window!_ Rook thought.

 _Pop!_ A shot broke through the window, cracking it. 

“They’re in there!”

Burke dove for cover as the other Peggies opened fire. 

Rook took a deep breath as she thumbed her M4’s fire selector into ‘AUTO’. This ratty wooden wall wouldn’t even stop pistol calibers, but it did conceal her from view. You can’t shoot what you can’t see. . . generally. 

More bullets flew through the window, shattering it and sending glass shards scattering inwards. Rook stepped, her boot crunching glass, and leveled the rifle. She scanned the treeline but didn’t immediately see any—There!

Rook squeezed the trigger for a split second. Two kicks against her shoulder. The ringing in her ears became louder. The Peggy slipped as he ran, crashing into a tree, then into the dirt. Rook pivoted, her eye drawn by a muzzle flash. She fired three rounds into the bush whence it came. She had no idea if she hit the shooter. 

“Fucking psychopaths!” Burke shouted, but Rook paid him no mind. Two Peggies were charging up the footpath Rook herself had taken to get to the house. Rook sent three more rounds downrange. One of the Peggies dropped, clutching his stomach and crying out. The other dove behind a stump for cover. Rook went to follow up, but saw two more Peggies come out of the treeline in her peripheral. She pulled back from the window just before bullets ripped through her. Instead, they zipped past. _What was that, eight, nine?_

Rook crouch-walked across to the other window, standing and pointing the rifle out. She saw one of her shooters continuing to fire at the window where she had been. She took aim, but before she could fire, the other spotted her. She pivoted to point the rifle at him, _pa-pop!_

She couldn’t tell if she hit him, but he was forced back into cover. Pivoting back to the other shooter—no, he went to ground as well. Rook heard more coming up the path.

“Don’t let them escape!”

Rook spotted a gas can. Taking a shot at it, it ignited and sprayed burning gasoline in a tight circle. The dry timber caught and started producing a nice smoke-screen.

“Burke! The truck!” Rook shouted.

“I got the keys!” Burke called back. “Cover me!”

Rook fired blindly through the smoke to suppress any Peggies while Burke vaulted out of the window and ran directly under Rook’s line of fire. She had enough presence of mind not to shoot the bastard. Just barely.

Rook swept the fore-end of the rifle across the window frame, dislodging any loose shards of glass, before planting a hand in the windowsill and vaulting through to the other side. Three Peggies came through the smoke; Rook fired a burst. Two went down, falling on top of the bodies of the others. The third stumbled, his hand going to his stomach where red was blossoming across his shirt. Rook swung the muzzle back toward him, but the gun clicked empty when she squeezed the trigger. _Shit!_ She depressed the mag release and flicked the rifle, dislodging the empty magazine. Fight the panic. Think. The Peggy looked up at Rook, his eyes cloudy from some kind of drug. Flashes of memory. Eyes wild from heroin in front of a dusty qalat. _Keep your head in the game._

Rook drew her sidearm as the Peggy started to advance. She squeezed off two rounds into his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Rook drilled him between the eyes with one more shot, then holstered her sidearm and continued reloading the M4.  
As soon as she slid the next magazine into the M4 and pressed the bolt release, she heard a motor trying desperately to turn over. Looking to her right, Burke was pounding on the steering wheel and frantically turning the key. Rook stepped to the left, peering around the edge of the smokescreen. A long rope bridge crossed some kind of depression. Three Peggies were charging down, one wielding a baseball bat, the other two, rifles. Rook sent a burst downrange at them, then rushed to the right, towards the truck.

“Come on, you stupid piece of shit!”

Rook pulled on the door—locked. She reached in the open window and opened the door from the inside, then climbed in. Looking at the bench seat, between Burke and Rook was a veritable mountain of M4 magazines, fully loaded with 5.56 NATO. 

_Nice,_ she thought. The dashboard had a map on it, but Rook didn’t have time to consult it. She pointed her rifle out the open window as a Peggy rounded the wall of the carport, a pistol in her hands. 

At this range, there was no missing. Rook put one shot in the suspect block, dropping the girl. Behind her, just the burning smokescreen.

Rook looked down at the girl to make sure she was dead. Tinnitus nearly dominated her hearing.

She didn’t move. Rook studied her features. Don’t get distracted. She looked barely old enough to vote. Maybe it was just the malnutrition. _Don’t think about it._

“Yes! Yes!” Burke shouted as the engine roared to life. The truck lurched into gear as Burke floored the accelerator. Rook leaned out the window, twisting in her seat and firing behind as more Peggies pierced the smokescreen.

“Rook! Ahead!”

Rook pulled back inside, pointing her rifle directly forward.

“Hey, don’t fire that in—”

Rook put three rounds through the windshield, dropping one of the two Peggies trying to stop them from ramming through the gates and onto the road.

“Damn it, Rook!” It was hard to hear Burke over the ringing in her ears. She fired two more shots, scaring the other into cover. Burke plowed the truck through the gates, causing the windshield to break in on them. Glass showered the two law enforcement officers. Rook didn’t react—didn’t have time to. She twisted in her seat again to point her rifle back in case—no, the Peggy had given up. She twisted back.

“You okay?” Burke said, the automatic transmission shifting the truck up a gear.

“Yeah,” Rook said, thumbing the rifle’s safety on and dropping it between her legs. Quickly, she buckled her seatbelt. Better to be trapped again than thrown from the crash.

“Nice work back there. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you!” Burke said, wiping glass off his legs. _Ain’t that the truth,_ Rook thought. “We gotta get back, but we gotta be smart,” Burke continued. “We don’t know who we can trust! Fucking _Nancy!”_

A couple of deer sprinted away from the road, scared by the oncoming truck. Lights ahead.

“Oh no,” Burke said, but Rook had picked her rifle back up and thumbed the fire selector to ‘AUTO.’ She shouldered the rifle, “Oh no! They got the roads—”

Rook cut him off with a burst of automatic fire. One of the Peggies waving a road flare at them dropped. Rook aimed at another standing in one of the truck beds and fired again. To the left of her target, a Peggy produced a flare gun and fired it into the air. _Shit. They thought this through._

She didn’t hit the standing Peggy and the gun clicked empty. Again, depress the mag release and flick the magazine out. She grabbed a new magazine from the stack between her and Burke and inserted it, then slapped the bolt release, chambering a round. Burke swerved the truck in a serpentine fashion, trying to avoid incoming fire, jostling Rook from side to side as a result. Burke made a hard left, avoiding the roadblock but going off-road while Rook fired at the roadblocking Peggies. In a moment, Burke maneuvered them back onto asphalt and they were off.

“Shit, behind us!” Burke said. Rook checked the rear-view mirror; headlights.

Rook twisted back again, this time feeling glass shards poke and slice at her leg from where they had landed in the seat and gotten under her. She paid it no mind, switching to shoot the M4 left-handed. She fired a burst, which pinged off the grill and hood of the Peggy truck giving chase. The truck didn’t swerve in the slightest. 

A second burst crawled up the driver’s side of the hood before disappearing into the windshield. The truck swerved to Rook’s left so hard that its right-hand side wheels lifted off the pavement and the truck began to roll. Rook didn’t immediately see any new pursuers.

“Jesus Christ,” Burke screamed. “I can’t get around it!”

Get around what? Rook thought, twisting back to face forward, throwing the nearly-empty magazine out the window and mechanically beginning to reload. She looked up and saw a large white semi-trailer parked across the length of the road and time seemed to slow. The forward motion of the truck, the slight scraping of the magazine against the magwell. Truck’s too high to go under. Besides, there were several large pick-ups arrayed in front of the tractor-trailer. At least one, Rook saw with growing horror, was a Technical. Rook pushed the magazine home and pressed the bolt release. _Come on, fuckers!_

“We gotta get off the main road!” Burke shouted.

Rook opened up on the roadblock, holding the trigger down for four full seconds as the M4 poured all thirty rounds downrange. The Peggies went to ground, diving behind crates, trucks, trees, or whatever was available. Burke screamed, in terror, determination, or pain, as he swerved the truck to the right, through a wooden fence, an empty parking lot, and another fence made of rusty corrugated tin. The barrel of the M4 had smoke rising off it now, even as Rook flicked the empty mag out the window and slid in another. Depress bolt release. Ready to fire.

“More behind us!”

They just never stop coming, Rook thought. She began to twist, but stopped. “Burke!” she shouted, but Burke drove straight off the incline. For a moment, Rook felt weightless. Empty shell casings, full and spent magazines, glass shards, and every other loose item in the truck lifted off the floor or seat or wherever they were for only a few moments, before the truck slammed back down to Earth. Rook closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t lose one to glass. The frame of the truck groaned as the engine forced the wheels to dig into the muck, pushing the truck on, ever onward. Burke continued to keep the accelerator floored, speeding over a set of train tracks as he turned sharply to the right, to put a box-car between them and their pursuers.

“Rook! There’s grenades in the back! Use 'em!”

 _Grenades?!_ Rook looked back and, sure enough, the jump had opened the truck bed cover. In a crate were small green grenades. They looked like Russian surplus. She reached through the smashed back windshield and grabbed two belts of them. Two more Peggy trucks, and a few Peggies on ATVs, were closing in. Setting the grenades in her lap, Rook fired out of the back windshield. She sprayed the windshields of the two trucks, then fired a more controlled burst at the ATV riders. The gunner on the back fell off, but the driver continued the chase. As for the trucks. . . 

Rook held the empty rifle in her off-hand as she picked a grenade out of the webbing. Hooking the pin on her off-hand’s thumb, she pulled firmly, making sure to keep the lever depressed. She looked up. “Drive steady,” she said, barely able to hear herself over the rushing wind and her own tinnitus.

Burke continued to fly along the rail line, swerving and juking with no regard for his gunner’s accuracy. Rook waited for a clear patch—There!

She leaned out of the window, flicked the grenade’s lever away, and counted. _One. Two._ She chucked the grenade and watched it bounce off the hood of her targeted truck. It exploded a second later, peppering the door and passenger with shrapnel. Rook grabbed another. _Hook thumb, pull. Keep lever depressed. Wait for a good moment. Flick lever. One, two._ Rook threw this grenade like a fastball, watching with satisfaction as it smashed through her targeted truck’s windshield and blew up right in the cab. The truck swerved and, _God be good,_ it slammed into the other pursuing truck, knocking them both into the abandoned hopper car.

Rook reloaded the M4, glad the barrel shroud and her duty gloves insulated her hand from the smoking barrel. 

“On my right!” Burke shouted. Rook pointed the M4 out the window and sprayed bullets at a pair of ATV riders. 

“Damnit!” Burke screamed, and Rook felt her stomach lurch as the truck hit a ramp or an incline or something. They were airborne again, before slamming back into the ground, the truck struggling to regain traction for only a moment before speeding along.

“Fuck! Gotta lose ‘em!”

_You think?_

Rook fired back at the truck that followed. She shot out a headlight and she thought she hit the passenger, but Burke jostled her back and forth and tunnel vision was starting to set in.

“Is that a fucking _plane?_ ”

“What?” Rook said.

“Don’t you tell me they have fucking air support!”

Rook saw jets of dirt being kicked up just behind their truck and heard a pair of linked Browning machine guns pumping rounds their way. Rook snapped up and saw a World War II-era prop-fighter strafing them. _You’re fucking joking._ Without thinking, she emptied the rest of the magazine at the cockpit, seeing sparks fly all over the fuselage. The fighter broke off, banking away and gaining altitude. _He’ll be back,_ she thought.

“Shit-shit-shit-shit!” Burke hissed, dodging the truck around tree trunks and debris. Rook had already loaded another magazine. The gas block on the M4’s barrel was starting to glow red from the heat.

“Cavalry’s coming!” A shout from in front.

“Front! Ahead!” Burke shouted. Rook faced forward and saw the tail-lights of a Peggy truck. Two Peggies were riding in the bed, pointing rifles right at them. 

“Joseph’s coming!” one shouted. Then they opened fire even as they were jostled around. Even the driver was craning his neck back so he could take potshots with a pistol. Rook fired as bullets zipped past her, to the left and to the right. She felt a stinging on the right side of her head. Careful to control her recoil, she swept the truck from right to left, riddling the two bed-gunners with lead. The truck veered off as the driver slumped forward onto the steering wheel.

“Holy shit! Nice shot!” Burke said, the truck speeding over a wooden bridge. No sooner than the truck cleared their path did another roadblock reveal itself. K-rails and a Peggy truck, with Peggies taking cover behind them all. Burke swerved to the right, bypassing it and turning onto a dirt road that ran along a creek, or the Henbane. In all this excitement, Rook couldn’t tell. She did spot a Peggy, or at least what she thought was a Peggy, standing beside a sedan and an oil drum further down the road. Rook opened fire, spewing rounds downrange.

God smiled again, for at least one of the bullets struck something combustible. The sedan and the oil drum exploded—Rook couldn’t tell which was first—sending the Peggy into the air, bits of his clothes on fire.

“That’s it! Light ‘em up, Rook! Blow ‘em to Hell!”

Rook didn’t respond; she just robotically removed and replaced the M4’s magazine, pressing the bolt release just as she caught sight of headlights ahead. Rook shouldered the M4, tracking a pair of Peggies on an ATV as they launched off a rocky outcropping and onto the dirt road ahead of them. Firing a burst, the Peggy riding in the back fell off the side of the ATV as the driver and Burke both turned onto a wooden bridge. 

“Front! Front!” Burke cried. There was a brown van in the way; Rook couldn’t tell if the driver was a Peggy or not. The Peggy driving the ATV, turned around as he was to shoot at Rook’s truck, drove straight into the van, launching himself through the windshield. _No more out of him,_ Rook thought.

“They aren’t gonna get us, Rook!” Burke swerved around the van and ATV. Rook could see black smoke rising from under the hood of their truck. They needed to end this chase. Soon.

More K-rails and—A Browning!

Rook fired two bursts, striking the Browning’s gunner just as the Browning fired one .50 caliber round right into the engine block. Rook continued suppressing the gun emplacement as Burke shook and swerved the truck—right into a pair of stampeding steers.

“Right-right-right!”

Rook whipped around, acquiring and firing at another Peggy truck that had pulled out in front of them. She didn’t strike any of the occupants, and her M4 ran dry. _Shit!_

“Oh fuck, he’s coming around!” 

Indeed, the plane from earlier was lining up for another strafing run. Rook hunkered down while she reloaded her rifle as .50 cal bullets tore up the road and, to her surprise, struck the other Peggy truck. The Pilot must have incorrectly guessed which truck they were in. The truck veered off the road and crashed directly into a tree, and Rook heard the plane’s propeller engine quieting as it broke off. 

Ahead, another roadblock. Two tractor-trailers perpendicular to the road, but Burke and Rook were coming in parallel to them. 

“You motherfucking psychopaths!”

 _Shut up!_ she thought. 

Rook couldn’t tell if there were any more heavy guns in the roadblock, so she just liberally sprayed the whole area with suppressive fire as Burke weaved through obstacles and Peggy trucks. Rook watched one of the Peggies send up another flare, just before Rook gunned him down.

Rook was reloading when another Peggy truck pulled out in front of them—but this one was a Technical. The headlights and the barrel of an M60 filled Rook’s view as both trucks sped onto a much larger truss bridge. This definitely connected Joseph’s island with the rest of Hope County. All they had to do was get across. . . 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Rook fired at the gunner, her rounds sparking off the armor plating as the gunner lined up a shot. Rook gritted her teeth, controlling the bucking rifle as best as she could, as she continued to put rounds downrange—Yes!

As the gunner opened fire, the M60 veered off to the right, spraying bullets harmlessly into the struts of the bride and empty air. Rook must have scored a glancing blow. She aimed for a better shot—

“No! No-no- _no!_ Rook!”

She heard it too. A whistling in the air, just above the ringing in her ears. _Mortar fire?!_

In a moment, her entire field of view flashed white and red-orange. Rook shut her eyes, accidentally discharging a round or two before she regained her presence of mind. She took her finger off the trigger and felt her body rise, weightless. 

Eyes open. The truck was mid-air. Glass shards and shell casings floated up to decorate the picture. The front-heavy truck dipped forward, and suddenly rushing water filled Rook’s view—

~~

Nothing but pure adrenaline and sheer fucking will to survive forced Rook’s eyes open. Her view was blurry—she was submerged. Still strapped into her seat. _Don’t panic,_ a voice rang out. _Panic, and you die._

Rook looked to her left. Burke was already free of his seatbelt and half-out the windshield. _Fucker._ She watched as he tore himself open on shards of the windshield still attached to the frame, leaving inky wisps of blood in his wake.

Rook immediately felt around her stomach and found the latch. Pressing in, she released herself and immediately pulled herself out of the passenger-side window, kicking towards the surface. Truss and concrete debris sunk slowly around her, and she took care not to get trapped under any of it. She fought her body to keep her movements steady and purposeful, though deeply instinctual terror was rising from her lungs to her brain. Vision blackening at the edges. Losing consciousness. Keep kicking. To the light. Searchlight. How deep—? No other choice. Keep—

~~

Rook spat water, bile, and blood onto the mud and the rocks. She gasped deeply and loudly before choking herself off. _Don’t let them hear,_ she thought. 

Her vision swam in stars and blurry colors and lines. . . She could see the bridge, searchlights scanning the river. 

“There were two in the truck!” someone shouted. “Search the shore! The trees!”

“No! Get off me! I am a United St—” Someone shut Burke up.

 _Gotta get away,_ Rook thought, even though she could feel her consciousness slipping again. The adrenaline dump was ending. The pain: her shoulder, her head, her ears, her chest. Everywhere. It was washing over her like a tidal wave. Rook rolled weakly onto her stomach and reached forward, grabbing a rock.

 _Gotta get away_. She pulled herself, feeling the pain in her shoulder explode magnitudes worse than it had been. _Gotta get away._ Fighting through it, she reached her other hand, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt. _Gotta. . . get. . ._  
Hands on her. Rolling her onto her back. Someone was feeling around her ribcage. 

_No, stop,_ she thought, wanted to scream, unable to see but putting her hands up to slap the others away. Her hands were forced down to her side. Hands on her neck. Did they say something?

_Gotta. . ._


	2. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

**Chapter 2 — Where Did You Sleep Last Night?**

* * *

“. . .we must give thanks to God." Words in the blackness. "The day I have prophesied to you has arrived." Cutting through the haze. 

Rook's eyes lazed open. Her breathing came slow, at first, but caught.

_Shit!_

"Everything I have told you has come true."

Rook pulled hard at the zip-ties restraining her to a rusted metal bed-frame. _Shit! Shit!_ she thought, but stopped struggling. _Think_. _Take stock of the situation._

 _Take a deep breath._ _In. . ._ Rook felt some mild pain in her abdomen and lower back.

"The authorities who tried to take me from you are now in the loving embrace of my Family. . ."

 _Out. . ._ Some pain in her ribs. But not a lot. Nothing felt broken; just bruised. Her shoulder throbbed. Her ear and the underside of her legs stung like salted wounds.

Rook was wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and a white tank top three sizes too large for her. Looking down, her left shoulder had medical tape wrapped around it, fixing two large pads of gauze to her, one on each side. _I've been shot,_ she recalled. There was a bit of light pink-red peeking through the white of the gauze. _Someone's been taking care of me. But why tie me up?_

"Save for two. . ." Rook perked up and snapped her head to look at the radio broadcasting Joseph Seed's voice. _Two?_ "But these Wayward Souls will be found. They will be punished. . . and in the End, they will see our Glorious purpose."

Rook fidgeted slightly, and felt something on underside of her thighs. Moving her legs, she saw and felt that there were numerous butterfly bandages on her legs and forearms.

 _You're okay. For now._

Looking around the room, the bed-frame held an old-fashioned military cot with drab-green blankets and a classic white pillow. A power outlet with four plug-ins. A nightstand with an antique porcelain lamp. A set of lockers with faded Post-Its and some kind of sports pennant pinned to it. Directly in front of her, an ancient fold-out chair with a _very_ worn smiley-face sticker on the back.

A large American flag on the wall. On either side, framed pictures and what looked like an award. A political map of Vietnam. A re purposed medical cart held a transistor radio, but it was wired into some more rugged communications equipment on the tray below it. Several sets of old GI boots were lined up along the siding. 

"I am your Father," the radio continued.

A man entered the room. He was older. Bit of a pot-belly. He wore wire-frame glasses, faded jeans, and a worn-leather gun-belt. An M1911. A1, by the looks of it. Bald, white-haired goatee. Vietnam-era Tigerstripe BDU coat. Some kinda band T-shirt underneath. He looked at Rook for a moment. Rook looked back, defiant.

"And you are my Children." The man walked, slowly, over to the radio. "And together, we will march to—" _Click._

The man looked at Rook, framed largely in shadow from the industrial wall light pinned to the wall behind him.

"You know what that shit means?" He said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to the radio. He paused, as if for dramatic effect, or perhaps an answer, but didn't receive one. Stepping forward, the man spoke. "It means the roads have all been closed." He came to within arm's reach of Rook. "It means the phone lines have been cut." The man sat down in the chair in front of Rook. A patch on his coat read 'Dutch.' "It means there's no signals getting in or out of this Valley. . ." He shook his head. "But mostly, it means we're all _fucked!_ " 'Dutch' kept eye contact with Rook for a moment before looking away and sighing. "Goddamn 'Collapse.' They all think the world's coming to an end, now. They been _waitin'_ for it. For _years_ ," he said.

_Keep calm, Rook. Don't say anything. Don't set him off._

"Just _waitin'_ for somebody come along and fulfill their Prophecy and kick off their Goddamn holy war. . . Well you sure as shit _kicked_." Dutch pursed his lips, as if he were biting words back. "Best thing. . . for _me_ to do. . . would just be to hand you both over."

 _Both?_ Rook thought. "Both?"

"Hey, Rook. You okay?"

Rook looked over. Now standing in the doorway Dutch had entered through was none other than Bishop, a bottle of Coke in his very unrestrained hands. 

"Are you?" Rook shot back.

Bishop just shrugged, sipping his Coke. Certainly, he didn't _look_ worse for wear. He was wearing a set of jeans that had to be folded in at the waist and tightly secured with a belt on account of their size relative to him, black GI boots, and a tank top like Rook's, though it fit him much better.

"How'd you get away?"

"Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape," Bishop said.

Rook rolled her eyes, then looked at Dutch. "You gonna cut me loose, or what?"

Dutch sighed, standing and retrieving a jackknife. He cut the zip-ties open. "Sorry about that. Didn't want you waking up delirious and trying to snap our necks or hurt yourself."

Rook just waved him off. 

"I imagine you two would like a moment. Come and see me when you're done. . . and we'll see about un-fucking this situation." Dutch gave the two Deputies a nod and then exited the room as Bishop entered.

Bishop offered Rook his hand. She took it, and Bishop helped her to her feet. 

"Are you okay?" Bishop asked.

"I think so." Rook didn't pull her hand away. Bishop pulled her in for a hug, careful not to put pressure on her bad shoulder. 

Rook just sighed, wrapping her good arm around Bishop. 

"I thought I left this kind of thing behind in Afghanistan," Rook said.

"You and me both."

Rook pulled away, then sat on the bed. "You got any clothes better than this?" she said, trying to adjust the loose tank-top to be less scandalous.

"Dutch has clothes in Dutch's size," Bishop said, shrugging, tugging at the waist of his own jeans. "We had to get your uniform off of you, on account of the blood, the river-water, and the mud, and to dress your wounds. And we didn't wanna wrap you up in too much while you were still out, since we knew we were gonna have to redress your wounds, too."

"I understand," she said.

"But now that you're conscious," Bishop said, going over to the lockers, "We can get you something better, yea. But, like I said," Bishop said, pulling a flannel shirt out of the locker and tossing it behind him. Rook caught it. "Dutch has Dutch-sized clothes. Hopefully we can get something more your style when we get topside."

"Topside? We're underground?"

"Doomsday bunker."

" _Of course._ "

"Well, the Peggies ain't found it yet," Bishop said.

"How long was I out?"

"Just overnight."

"What time is it now?"

Bishop looked at his wrist. "Ten before noon."

"How did you find me?"

"It wasn't hard to follow you and the Marshal screaming past all those roadblocks. When you washed up on the shore, Dutch found you before the Peggies could. I found him while he was spiriting you across the river. He offered us shelter."

Rook turned the flannel over in her hand. "You think Dutch has any sports bras lying around?"

Bishop scoffed, shaking his head. "Yours should be dry by now. I'll go get it."

"Thanks," Rook said, standing and searching the lockers for the smallest pair of trousers she could find.

~~

Rook stepped out of the bedroom, rolling up the sleeves of her borrowed flannel shirt. She had to bunch up the loose fabric and tie a hair band around it in the back just so it wouldn't hang off of her. Two pairs of socks allowed her to wear the smallest pair of GI boots Dutch had on hand. As for pants, Dutch had fished out an old pair of khaki cargo pants that he had outgrown decades ago. Still, Rook had to fold the waistband in on itself and get creative with her belt to get it to stay up and stay remotely comfortable. Thankfully, her own underwear had since dried, so she wore them even though they smelled like river-water and cordite. Rook retained her red duty gloves and her duty belt, well-concealed beneath the large Dutch-sized rancher's coat that she now slid over her flannel.

"Hey! Bishop! Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall," Bishop called from another room. Rook could hear Dutch speaking in concerned tones, along with hints of radio static.

Rook found the bathroom, extremely cramped and utilitarian, and took a look at herself in the mirror, leaning on the wash-basin.

There were tiny cuts dotting her forehead and cheeks. A dark bruise was seeping out from her hairline, where a painful knot had formed. Rook's right earlobe had stitches holding it together. The light every-day makeup Rook wore had run and smeared from the sweat and the river. Rook could just barely make out four purple dots on one side of her neck, and a fifth on the other.

 _I'm gonna kill 'em._ _Or I'm gonna see him rot_. 

She pulled on her hairband, letting her chestnut hair out of the bun for now. Sighing, she picked what broken leaves and debris she could see out of it. Probably be finding shit in there for weeks unless she could find a real good shower.

Rook took a wet wipe from the toilet and wiped off what little remained of her light make-up; a modest amount of concealer to hide the eternal bags under the eyes of someone who works twelve-hour shifts, and a little eyeliner—just because she liked it.

Now, of course, the dark bags under her eyes were even darker. Not just the stress and lack of sleep; there was light bruising on her cheek as well. Without the make-up, her face did look a little sharper, a little meaner. _No, that's not it._

_It's the eyes._

Ever since Pratt landed the chopper, the eyes were back. The bright shine of her blue eyes was extinguished. Now? Awareness, without a trace of warmth. When she came back to herself, it was gonna hurt. She would see their faces. The blood, the brains. Right now, they didn't matter. She didn't feel for them. Bishop probably felt the same way. For now. _They'll catch up with you. They always do._

Rook shook her head. _One thing at a time. Lighten up. Think about something less important._ She pushed herself off the counter and gave herself a once-over, tilted her head. Curious, she turned and looked over her shoulder, pulled the coat up a bit; yeah, these khakis weren't doing her any favors. Rook chuckled. "Flat as an airstrip," she mumbled.

"Huh?" Bishop was standing in front of the doorway.

"Look at this, Bishop. It's criminal."

Bishop just raised an eyebrow.

"I worked hard for this ass. And I'm gonna die in these fucking khakis, looking like a barracks rat beating a hasty retreat."

Bishop cracked up, and Rook joined him.

"You're not the only one." Bishop held up his arms, all loose fabric and baggy pants. "I'm 220 pounds of pure muscle and this outfit makes me look like a kid wearing daddy's uniform."

"Yeah, your abs have left the building," Rook added.

"Well, _sor-ree_ I didn't make a run to Dillard's for you two," Dutch called. "If you're done, get in here. We've got business to take care of."

Bishop shrugged, and the two entered Dutch's little War Room.

Bathed in red emergency lights, Rook saw two large cork-boards: the one directly in front of her was a detailed topographical map of Hope County, and to her left, a crazed conspiracy theorist's wet-dream. Pictures, articles, notes, all connected by interlinking webs of red string. Four primary mugshots: Joseph, John, Jacob, and Faith Seed.

"Is anyone there?" Dutch said, his frustration rising. He was speaking into the handset of a CB radio. "To anyone at the Prison: Is anyone there? What's your status, _hello?!_ "

While Dutch messed with the controls, a Victrola continued to let loose Bob Dylan's sultry tones. "In the pines, in the pines. . ."

Dutch frowned and set down the handset, turning his chair to face the Deputies. "Guess I didn't properly introduce myself, by the way. Most folks call me Dutch."

"Rook," Rook said. "Junior Deputy Harlow Rook. I used to serve with the Rangers, 3rd Battalion. You?"

Dutch nodded. "82nd, all the way." He looked at Bishop.

"Captain J. George Bishop, retired of course. I flew Pave Hawks for the 66th Rescue Squadron." Bishop shook his head. "I thought being a Deputy would be _easier_. You served in Vietnam, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah," Dutch said, "but nevermind all that. I been trying to piece together what's happenin' up top. It ain't pretty."

"What about our partners?" Rook said.

"From what I can gather, they're alive, for the time being. They been split up and handed off, one to each of Joseph's little 'Family.' You want 'em back, I get it—I got friends that been taken, too. . . Problem is, ain't no help comin'. Nobody knows what's going on here and they _won't_ know until it's too late. But there's _gotta_ be people out there willin' to fight back against this Cult, we just. . . gotta find 'em and show 'em how! We need to train us some guerrillas." 

"Alright. So where do we start?" Bishop asked.

"Take control of this island." Dutch walked over and pointed at a Park Service map of Hope County. "Once we got some breathing room, we can figure out what's comin' next. There are some guns and a map in that safe over there. Take 'em. They'll get you started. I'll call you on Channel 9 once you've got your bearings."

Indeed, there was a large gun safe. Already open, it contained a Winchester Model 1876 lever-action rifle, a Colt M1911 and a Remington Model 700 bolt-action rifle. The Colt rested on top of a folded-up, well-weathered topographical map.

"That's a Goddamn museum piece," Bishop said, carefully and reverently removing the Winchester from the safe.

"No it ain't," Dutch snorted. "It's a reproduction. Now, that ain't to say it's cheap junk. I had that there rifle custom-built by a gunsmith friend-a mine." Dutch sucked in a breath. "You can use it, 'till you get your hands on something better. And I expect it back in good condition!"

"Where do you even find ammo for this?"

"I custom-load it."

"Of course," Rook said, picking up the Colt and looking it over. "From 'Nam?"

"Yep."

Rook slid a magazine in and chambered a round, then holstered it on her hip.

"One condition, though."

The Deputies looked to Dutch.

"Scratch a notch into the buttstock for every Peggy bastard you kill."

Rook grinned. "Sir, yessir!"

~~

Throwing open the cellar-style doors, Bishop squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

Rook took a deep breath; rather than triple-filtered air, all-natural, clean, fresh, Montanan air. . . With a hint of smoke.

"I've got trail cameras posted up all over this island." Dutch's voice crackled over the radio, piped into the Deputies' ears by small earbuds connected to the handheld radios on their duty belt. "I'll let you know if I see anything useful. For now, head south and take out any Cult shit you see. . . And help any folks in need, would ya?"

"Copy that," Bishop said, thumbing the push-to-talk button on his handset.

Rook closed the cellar doors and heard them auto-lock.

"There should be camouflage netting nearby. Throw it over the doors, please and thank you. Dutch out."

Rook tossed the camouflage netting across the door, and even spread some leaves and dirt onto the doors. She looked around, and couldn't see a discernible transmitter coming out of Dutch's bunker. _One of the trees must be fake or hollowed out._

The wind blew gently, tousling Rook's hair, which she had up in a tight bun. It wouldn't do if it got in the way. It was cool out, maybe sixty degrees. The leaves hadn't started turning yet, but the harvest would be upon the Valley soon, if it wasn't already. A couple species of tree provided a nice canopy to keep the sun out of their eyes, even as they had to blink and wait for their pupils to constrict enough to where their eyes didn't burn.

Rook knew which way South was, but consulted the compass built into her watch anyway.

"Let's go, partner," Bishop said.

"Let's."

~~

"The Father thanks you for your tithe," the Peggy said, scratching words into a small reporter-style notepad. _"x1 Whitetail Deer carcass, male."_ In another column, he wrote "male, 30s." The Peggy paused, looking up and studying the hunter's features. "Blasian?" he scratched, furrowing his brows.

The hunter bit his tongue, lest he dig this hole any deeper. Another Peggy stood behind him, the muzzle of a pistol cool against the nape of his neck.

"What kinda guns you good with?" the older Peggy asked.

_Crack!_

The hunter blinked, shuddering as he felt something warm and wet spray against the back of his neck and across his shoulders. The Peggy with the notepad spun around, going for his gun. Behind the hunter, something fell into the grass.

_Pop-pop! Pop!_

The Peggy fell.

Two people came out of the treeline into the clearing, a man and a woman. There were three corpses; the two Peggies and the buck with his guts tossed under a tree. And the hunter, on his knees, in the muck.

"You okay?" the woman called.

The hunter just shut his eyes and took a deep breath, shaking his head. Hands on his shoulders. A snapping sound. His hands were free now. He looked up.

"My name's Rook, I'm a Sheriff's Deputy," the woman said, pulling open her coat to reveal a badge pinned to the lining. A five-pointed star, circled with the word's _Hope County Sheriff's Department_. "This is my partner, Bishop. You're safe now."

"Yeah," the hunter said. "Yeah, thanks."

Rook helped the hunter to his feet. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Yeah. . . I was just in the middle of dressing that fine buck over there when those Peggy fucks came out of nowhere, screaming that they needed my game for the 'Reaping,' whatever-the-fuck _that_ is." Now that the initial shock had passed, anger was taking its place. "They put me on me knees, zip-tied my hands, started preaching at me. . ."

Rook gazed around as the hunter spoke. "No vehicles. How'd they get on the island?"

"I guess they took a boat. Or-or, there's a crossing where the river gets real shallow. You could drive any good ATV over it when the waterline's low."

"Thanks," Bishop said. "You're not hurt, are you?"

The hunter patted himself down. "No, I don't think so."

"That's good to hear, at least." 

"Do you think there are more on the island?" Rook started patting down the Peggies, looking for spare ammunition and loose cash. The Peggy with the pistol had magazines compatible with Rook's Colt, so she lifted the magazine in the gun as well as the spares on the former's belt.

"Probably," the hunter said, raising an eyebrow but not questioning his savior.

"Will you be alright?" Bishop asked, looking the hunter over. 

The hunter bit his lip, then turned and retrieved his bolt-action from where he had lain it. "Yeah. Now that I know they've officially gone off the deep end, I'll keep an eye out for them. They won't catch me with my pants down again."

Rook nodded at him. "Stay safe."

The two Deputies started to walk off to the South.

"Hey, actually," the hunter said. The Deputies paused, looking back his way. "I knew a coupla preppers who had a boat-house on this island. They also built a little doomsday bunker, though it was more like a panic room in the ground. . ." The Deputies just looked at him, waiting for the point. "Well, they moved away. Might've left some gear behind. Might be worth checking out. You can see the boathouse from the fire-tower," the hunter said, pointing up to a nearby hill.

"Thanks for the tip," Bishop said. "Stay safe."

~~

The small foot-trail up to the firewatch tower was marked by ancient oaken planks, serving as rather redundant steps given the gentle grade of the incline. A small chicken-wire fence with worm-eaten posts held back some of the undergrowth as the tower rose before them. The gate was wide open, and the sign naming the tower was covered in much newer-looking metal-sheet signs bearing messages such as "Keep out!" and "Trespassers will be shot!"

In front of these, however, driven into the dirt, was a metal rod. It came up to about Bishop's waist. And at the apex was a lovingly-crafted Peggy fucking cross.

"I'm gonna see that damn thing in my nightmares for years to come," Bishop said, shaking his head.

Rook idly looked for tripwires before crossing the threshold. An outhouse to the right. Several piles of timber chopped into firewood, for the poor bastard who would have to tend this tower come wintertime. Looking up, the tower had a black flag emblazoned with a white Peggy cross draped over the handrail of the platform. Rook had Dutch's borrowed Colt in her hand as she climbed the staircase, which spiraled around the four sides of the tower. 

Nobody was up top. Likely, the two Peggies that had vandalized the tower had been the ones they'd shot. They had used their vantage point to look for things to Reap, most like.

The window next to the tower's door was broken and boarded up. The door itself was unlocked. Dried blood portended past crimes.

Rook and Bishop perused the supplies that the firewatcher kept, as well as those likely put there by the Peggies. Granola bars were put into pockets, magazines commandeered. Bullets counted.

The wood-fire stove was cold. A shelf was overturned, as if ransacked. Muddy boot-prints mocked the welcome mat at the door.

"There's the boat-house," Bishop said, peering through a pair of binoculars he had taken off the wall. 

"Might as well check it out. . ." Rook said, sounding skeptical.

"Hey, think positive! Maybe they'll have something in your size."

~~

"Well, _shit._ "

They had successfully pried open the cellar-style doors leading to the bunker/panic-room, but it was entirely flooded with groundwater.

"There's a pump system," Bishop called from above. "But the power's off."

"Where's the switch?"

"In the boat-house," Bishop said, his eyes following the power cables running from the shack with the pump to the boat-house.

Rook climbed back up the stairs and walked to the boat-house, Colt in hand. They hadn't seen any Peggy activity around here, but. . .

"Door's locked!" Rook called, walking out of the entryway.

"Hm," Bishop said, walking over. He started rifling through the drawers and cupboards of the Craftsman tool-boxes and carts outside the door. 

"I'll try to find another way in," Rook announced, starting to circle the small boat-house. It was covered, and that appeared to be the only external door. Well, except for the door that gave access to the river, of course.

Of course!

Rook examined the foundation of the boat-house. It was built on cinder-blocks and concrete for the part on solid earth and in the shallow water, and transitioned to a grate. Continuing to walk further to the side, Rook could see clearance and gaps where the door to the river would be. Rook could just swim around and under the door. . . Still, she didn't much fancy skinny dipping, and she certainly wasn't going to go back to Dutch's bunker to ask for swim trunks.

_I suppose I could go looking for the boat the Peggies rode in on and come back with it, come through the river door that way. . ._

As Rook continued to look at the boat-house, she saw that there was _just_ a _bit_ of space where the floorboards extended past the foundation. _If I'm careful,_ she thought. . . 

Rook took off her coat and laid it on the porch of the boat-house. Then, carefully, she sidled out onto the side of the boat-house, pressing herself against the wood. She made her way, inch-by-careful-inch, down the length of the boat-house. When the foundation gave way to the steel grid, she sighed with relief. Just able to fit her foot into the spaces between the bars, she made much faster progress, rounding the corner. Smiling, she saw the latch holding the river-access door closed. It was secured with a Masterlock padlock. Carefully, she made sure her footing was secure, before taking one hand from the side of the boat-house and grabbing her Colt. She passed it into her other hand and, making sure it was on safety and that her finger was out of the trigger guard, brought the butt of the gun down on the padlock. She could see the body of the lock deform. Carefully, making sure not to overextend her arm and make herself fall into the water, she struck again. The internal locking lugs broke and the Masterlock dropped into the river with an unceremonious _plop!_

From there, all Rook had to do was hold on tight and use her foot to push the door in. Though her leverage was poor, she was in no rush, and the door swung in on rusty hinges. With a little victory chuckle, she rounded the corner and pushed off the wall, landing firmly on the boat-house's floor. Triumphantly, Rook dusted her hands and looked at the walls. It wasn't hard to find a large electrical switch labelled "PUMP" and throw it into the 'ON' position.

 _Fuck yea,_ she thought, as she heard the door leading to the road unlock.

Startled, she whipped around.

Bishop pushed open the door.

Rook blinked. "Did you find the key?"

"No," Bishop said, holding up a pair of small metal tools. "I used my master key."

"You should've said something."

"You looked like you were having fun."

Rook shook her head. "Whatever. Let's just drain the bunker and hope there's something in there worth all this trouble."

~~

"Ah!" Bishop shook his hand back and forth, stepping back from the valve.

"I told you to invest in a quality pair of gloves," Rook said, pulling her own red gloves tight before stepping up to the plate.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just glad I got my tetanus shot not too long ago," Bishop said, reaching into his borrowed BDU shirt's pockets for a roll of bandages.

Rook grunted, gritting her teeth as she wrestled with the valve control for the pump. It had rusted pretty thoroughly, but if she could just get it to budge an inch. . .

"Every vein in your body is popping out," Bishop said, tearing the bandage with his teeth and tying it off.

"Wanna help out?" Rook said, strained. Even dulled by painkillers, her shoulder throbbed and stung.

Bishop put his hands back on the valve and added his strength to the mix and—

_Creak! Creaaaak-SNAP!_

Bishop and Rook almost fell over together, holding the valve wheel in their hands. Stumbling to catch themselves, water started jetting out of the side of the pump, immediately creating a small-but-ever-growing muddy pool beside the pump-shack.

"Well, there goes that," Rook said, tossing the wheel off into the grass.

Bishop walked over to the staircase leading down to the subterranean haven. The waterline was moving, by millimeters, down. "And now, we wait."

~~

The first room held little of value that wasn't heavily water-damaged. A few pieces of derelict furniture not worth the effort to move. An algae-encrusted water heater. A toilet and washbasin similarly redecorated by Mother Nature. Soaked paperbacks, their print long washed away. Rook and Bishop swept the beams of their Maglites across the scene.

Yes, perhaps the most interesting thing was the hermetically-sealed bulkhead door. It had a tiny, once-clear, now-cloudy window.

"Let's hope it's not booby-trapped," Rook said.

Bishop took a deep breath of extremely-humid air, gripped the bulkhead handle, pulled it out slightly and twisted. Gears ground behind the rusty metal and the door emitted a low hiss as the rubber seal broke for the first time in who knows how long. Bishop pulled the door open to reveal. . .

A mostly empty bedroom. There was a metal bunk, lacking any bedding, on which an old magazine lay. Under the bunk were barrels labeled 'WATER' and rings in the dust where canned food might once have been. Most interesting was the workbench against the other wall; a few tools were left by the previous owners in their haste to clear out, but that was not all they had left. A practically pristine compound bow hung from pegs, crafted from fiberglass and bearing a rather expensive-looking optic.

Curiously, it lacked a brand. A custom piece?

"Why'd they leave this behind?" Bishop said.

Rook paced across the bedroom, examining the pegboard from multiple angles. She didn't see any tripwires or other devices. 

Bishop just reached out and picked it up, then held it out to Rook. "It won't bite."

Sighing, Rook took the bow and picked up a cheap nylon-cloth quiver from the rack-shelf near the workbench.

"You'd think they'd have a custom Italian-leather quiver to go with this bow. This probably came from Academy for thirty bucks."

"Maybe they didn't forget that."

"I just can't believe anyone would leave this behind," Rook said, slipping about ten broadheads into the quiver, then buckled it around her waist. Rook tested the tension of the string. Probably had a draw-weight of about sixty pounds. Of course, thanks to the pulleys, Rook wouldn't have to actually apply sixty pounds of force every time she wanted to loose an arrow.

"You ready to hunt the most dangerous game?" Bishop asked with a grin.

Rook nodded, chuckling, but the thought caused her stomach to turn. Looking into Bishop's eyes, she knew he felt it too. _The Peggies won't hesitate._ What else could they do but laugh? As any soldier must, Rook buried that feeling under layers of detachment and numbness. _Survive._ That word alone could kill compassion. _Survive._ Even if Rook didn't think her life was worth more than that of a Peggy's, Rook wasn't just surviving for herself. She had to rescue her partners. Sheriff Whitehorse. Senior Deputy Hudson. Deputy Pratt. Hell, might as well add 'all of Hope County' to the list. At the end, last and least, Marshal Burke. _Even him,_ she thought. _Even him._

Because that's her job. More importantly, because it's Right. 

"Holy _shit_ , look at this," Bishop said, snapping Rook out of her thoughts.

Bishop was moving aside a broken plank in the floorboard. In the slight gap between the floorboard and the concrete foundation, Rook saw a mostly-empty cache of supplies. A small individual first-aid kit and a roll of dollars held together with a rubber band. Bishop pocketed the first-aid kid first, but wasted no time picking up the roll of bills. 

"Payday, baby!" Bishop said, snapping the band off and thumbing through the bills.

Rook smirked. "Whitehorse is gonna owe us _so_ much overtime. How much you reckon is in that?"

"Mm, it's in twenties. Six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen. . . Sixteen-hundred dollars."

"Split two ways."

"Split two ways," Bishop echoed. Cutting the stack in half, he passed Rook's cut to her. Rook wasted no time reaching into her flannel and securing the windfall in her bra. No pickpocket was gonna lift that.

"Don't you still have your wallet?"

"I left it in Dutch's safe."

Bishop nodded, leaning the Winchester against the wall while he put his cut into his wallet. "I feel bad taking their doomsday stash like this, but this'll really help us as soon as we get to civilization proper."

"They're the one's who left it behind. Hell, maybe they left a little just in case some poor sods would really need it."

Bishop just shrugged, picking the Winchester back up as he stuffed his wallet into his breast pocket, buttoning it for security.


	3. Deguello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook and Bishop find an ally or two, and work to liberate Dutch's island.

**Chapter 3 — Deguello**

* * *

Rook threw open the cellar-style doors and let the sunlight flood in.

"—it, kid."

"Dutch?" Rook grabbed the handset on her shoulder.

"There you are."

"We were underground searching a prepper's stash."

"Well, I'm watching the trail cameras. Peggies just grabbed a guy down by the boathouse. You help him out, maybe he'll be willing to pick up a gun and return the favor."

"The boathouse?" 

As Bishop stepped up onto solid earth, he cast a glance across the inlet. "Rook."

Two Peggies stood across the way, one holding a man prisoner, his wrists bound. The other was speaking into a handheld radio and pacing along the wooden pier. They were out of earshot—maybe fifty yards? 

Rook took a step back down into the bunker. Bishop stalked over to the boathouse and leaned his shoulder against the wall, peeping out at the scene.

"There you are, I see you. What's the play?" Dutch asked. 

~~

Dennis Crawford was just your average rural Montanan. Well, _average_ was a relative term. He was lower-middle class, but living comfortably out in Hope County. He liked fishing, hunting, and exercising his Second Amendment rights. He went to church in Fall's End every Sunday. He rooted for the Hope County Cougars at every ball-game. _That_ was typical. Dennis' _skin_ was what made him atypical. Eighty-eight percent of Montanans were white, and the next-largest demographic were the Native Americans— _wait, am I supposed to call them First Nations people? I remember when we used to call them Indians. . .—_ at a whopping _six percent_. Of the twelve percent nonwhite Montanans, most lived in the state's few urban areas, if you could even call them that. Outside of his immediate family, it had been literal months since Dennis had seen another brother or sister. Sure, he _knew_ there were a couple around, Pastor Jerome and that veteran Armstrong, but the Pastor was a Roman Catholic and Dennis an Evangelical Baptist, and Armstrong wasn't much a churchgoer, so he hadn't met them. 

When Dennis had moved to rural Montana, to be frank, he expected a little more push-back. He may have gotten a suspicious glance from a few of his older neighbors, and some of the children in town sometimes asked him innocently offensive questions, but whatever they felt about a black man moving into the Henbane River Valley, _at least he wasn't a Peggy._

When he first heard about Eden's Gate, he assumed they were white nationalists with their ideological roots in a warped version of Christianity. This assumption strengthened when he learned more about the Seeds being the face of the cult, only for the same assumption to be dashed when John, during one of his infamous recruitment drives, had tried to schmooze Dennis into coming to a Baptism. With John had been four bodyguards: a black man, an Asian woman, an Arabesque fellow, and white woman. John said that Salvation wasn't for any one race, it was "for all who had the courage to say Yes and take it." So they were progressive. Didn't make 'em any less crazy.

Dennis had politely declined, obviously. John just smiled and thanked him for his time, then went on his way. Dennis had thought that was the end of it. 

Now, months later, the Peggies were back, and they weren't taking no for an answer.

"When's that damn boat gonna get here? We gotta get our quota!" the Peggy holding Dennis by the collar of his shirt said. 

"It'll _be_ here!" the woman hissed. "You know as well as I do that our drivers are working overtime. The Reaping is in full swing."

"Praise be," the man said.

Dennis just sighed. What were they going to do to him? Brainwash him? Kill him? Which was worse?

"Hey, maybe we should go look for more," the man said.

"Don't get greedy. John said not to be alone with any of the new recruits. We don't want them escaping."

"But we—"

"No buts! Are you doubting John?"

". . . N-no, of course not!"

"Exactly! So be quiet!" The woman paced away, fiddling with her radio.

_They're like a bad married couple,_ Dennis thought.

The man behind him was bouncing his leg, his boot tapping an erratic rhythm against the aged hardwood. "Come on, come on. . ." he muttered, gazing out to the river. 

Dennis looked over just in time to see a shape jump off the large rock formation the woman was standing under. The woman gave out a yelp, cut short, by the shape—another woman—cracking her over the skull with a pistol. His mouth fell open, slack-jawed. He fought off the instinct to say, "Did you just see that?"

The woman looked up at him, putting her forefinger to her lips. _Shh._

If Dennis' hands were free, he would have mimed zipping his mouth shut. Instead, he just closed his mouth before he started catching flies.

A flash of silver. Dennis' eyes trailed back up the rock face. A man pointing a rifle in his direction. The man gestured down with his head.

Dennis, on his knees, simply let himself fall over. 

"Huh?"

_Crack! . . . Splash!_

The woman was helping him up before he had much time to process. His wrists were suddenly free.

"I was a dead man. . . Thanks," Dennis said, flexing his fingers to get some feeling back into them.

"Don't mention it." The woman pulled open her coat, revealing a badge. "Deputy Rook. That's Bishop. Here to help."

"Dennis. Crawford. Fisherman. . ." he said, "Or, at least, I was. Peggies took my boat, my gear, my catch. I ran, but they caught me." Dennis looked around. Two ARs were leaned against one of the pier posts. He grabbed both, handing one to the Deputy. "I ran up to the research station to find help or hide, but they had taken it over. They're bringing stuff in by boat. . . no idea what it is. What say you and I go get some payback?"

"I like your style," Bishop said, having just finished picking over the lady-Peggy's corpse for valuables. 

"Couldn't hurt to have another gun," Rook said. "What about after?"

"I'll head home. Gotta make sure my girls are alright."

Rook nodded. "I get that. Grab those magazines and let's go."

~~

_Silver Lake Conservation Area — Forest Research Station._

_Quaint,_ Rook thought.

The Research Station consisted of a main log-cabin building, an outhouse, and a large corrugated-tin shed. Six Peggies, far as Rook could see. One was hauling a large green canister from the pier to the tin shed. One was messing with the outhouse's plumbing. One was guarding the door to the main cabin. One was going for another canister. One was watching the road—more of a trail, really—leading to the station. One was scanning the river with a pair of binocs. _Looking for me, I wonder?_

Rook stalked along the outcropping, keeping to the underbrush, an arrow nocked but not drawn.

"Cultists," Dennis whispered. "Keep low."

_You think?_

"I'll pick off who I can. When they notice, Bishop start at the right and sweep left. Crawford, start left, sweep right."

"Huh?"

Rook bit her lip. "Start with the Peggy farthest to the left, and work your way to the right. Deal with any threat. Look at the one carrying the canister. He's less of a threat because he'll have to drop that canister before he can go for his gun."

"He has a gun?"

"Yeah. Look at his waistband. See that black shape poking out, just above his belt buckle?"

"Oh."

"They're probably all packing something."

"Yeah. . . yeah. Of course."

Rook turned to Dennis. She nudged him with her shoulder. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

"No hesitation. Get a good sight picture and squeeze. It's us or them."

"It's us or them," Dennis repeated.

"Us or them," Bishop echoed, stalking off to the right and posting up on a tree. Dennis went prone, steadying his aim by planting his elbows in the dirt and resting the barrel of his rifle against the tree.

Rook scanned the Peggies again. The one with the canister disappeared into the shed. A moment later, he reappeared. Rook waited for him to pass the one working on the electrical box. . .

Rook pulled back the bowstring, the cams spinning and converting her strength into mechanical advantage. Thankfully, the system was well-lubricated, and the pulleys barely made a sound. Her left shoulder throbbed, but most of the strain was on her right. Rook felt muscles unused for months working overtime as she centered the cross-hair of the optic on the Peggy's spine, then brought it just a tad. . . A little to the left. . . 

Rook let the arrow loose. In a moment, the Peggy stumbled against the wall, grasping at it for support, before falling limp. He didn't fall over, however. Right through the spine and into the wall, pinned like a morbid refrigerator magnet. 

"Sweet Jesus," Dennis muttered.

"Focus."

Rook withdrew a second arrow from her quiver. Every other Peggy was in view of at least one other. The one leaning against the cabin, he had seen movement. Probably the blur of Rook's arrow. He began to push off the wall—

The bowstring silently strained again. Rook let her second shot loose.

Her aim was off this time. She was going for the heart, but the arrow lodged itself in the Peggy's abdomen. Falling against the wall, he stared dumbly down, in shock, his free hand gingerly touching the blood beginning to soak his shirt. His mouth was open, but he hadn't even processed the pain yet. Rook was drawing another arrow—

"Shit! Tom, you alright?!" One of the Peggies shouted. Nock the arrow.

Tom the Peggy looked up, shaking his head as if confused. After a moment, he began screaming. Rook shot him through the throat.

The two Peggies on the dock dropped their canisters. One of them popped open, spilling some kind of light-green liquid onto the dock and into the river. The Peggy watching the road swiveled to look at Tom. Rook put an arrow in his back, knocking him to the forest floor.

_Crac-BOOM!_ Something exploded. Rook ducked behind a tree, setting her bow aside and picking up the AR. She raised it and turned around.

Some of those light-green crates were now missing from where they had been stockpiled near the dock. The two Peggies that had been standing nearby were nowhere to be seen. _That's five,_ Rook thought. _Where's—_

_Pa-pop!_

"I-I got one!" Dennis yelped.

The Peggy watching the river. He had turned to see Tom. Now, he lay on his back, writhing. 

Bishop ran over to the dock, the Winchester sweeping the surface of the River. _Crack!_ Bishop worked the lever, popping out a smoking, spent brass shell. _Crack!_

Rook moved towards the Peggy pinned to the outhouse. He didn't so much as twitch. Walking over, neither did the one near the road. Both stone-dead. 

"Oh, God!" Bishop spat, then started coughing and hacking. Rook looked over just in time to see Bishop jog away from the dock, his nose buried in the crook of his arm as he coughed and coughed.

"What? What?" Rook said.

"Whatever was in those canisters," Bishop said, sitting phlegm onto the ground.

"Chemical weapons?"

"Nah, if it were, I'd be worse off. . ." Bishop hacked some more, continuing to spit. He looked around. "Where's Dennis?"

Rook shrugged. "Dennis?" she called. Last she knew, he was fine. He was right beside her, prone and calling out his kill.

They found him standing over the writhing Peggy, pointing his rifle at the man's chest.

Rook walked past Dennis, reaching down and retrieving the Peggy's sidearm. A cheap import version of the 1911. Still chambered in .45 ACP, so Rook took the magazine out of the gun and stuffed it into the pocket of her cargo pants with the others.

"I got him," Dennis muttered, staring down.

"Yeah, you did."

"Sh—. . . Should we help him?"

Rook looked down. _Bullet tore through his abdomen._ Still, the man wasn't bleeding as much as he should have been. Maybe he had been lucky.

Rook looked up. Looked at Bishop. Bishop shrugged.

"Father, please, Father. . ." the Peggy muttered, gazing up at the sky. "Father, march me to the Gate. . ."

Rook knelt and examined the man's stomach. The Peggy just keep wriggling on the rock, his hands pressed against his wound. Blood seeped through his fingers and soaked his shirt.

"Sin—Sinners, all of-of you!" he hissed. 

Rook thought of the first aid supplies she carried. She imagined Bishop was doing the same. She looked in the Peggy's eyes. Wild. Furious. Enraptured. _He's too far gone._

Rook stood up and shook her head. Dennis sucked in a breath.

"I can do it. Go check the cabin," Rook said.

Dennis opened his mouth, then closed it again. Bishop patted him on the shoulder, and the two walked off.

Rook looked back down at the man. 

"May the F-Father save m-my soul. . ."

~~

Rook walked into the main building. The cabin was small, only one room. There were two sinks, some odd-looking lab equipment. It was surprisingly bare.

"I didn't hear a shot," Dennis said.

Rook patted the Glock knife on her belt.

"Oh," Dennis said.

Dennis and Bishop were on either side of a man sitting on a counter-top. Dressed in a flannel and jeans, rubbing wrists red from rope, he smiled at Rook.

"Thanks for bailing me out," he said. "You must be the other Deputy."

"Yep."

"I'm Kyle. I intern for the Park Service. We do wildlife research here."

"What'd the Peggies want with you?"

"Mostly? Our equipment. Not that we have much of that. . . This post is the ass-end of nowhere, even as far as the Park Service is concerned. . . no offense."

"None taken," Dennis said. 

"What kind of equipment?"

"Shit, honestly? Some high-school-level compound microscopes, some pipettes, test tubes. . . Most of the research we do here is wildlife observation. I say 'we.' Me. Occasionally I get to examine some whitetail scat or trout eggs under the microscope, but. . ."

"You reckon it has something to do with that green shit?" Bishop asked.

"The Bliss, yeah. It's some kinda drug, maybe an opiate? The Cult cultivates it, heh."

Rook let it slide. "They were bringing in stuff by boat?"

"Yeah. They said they'd Reap me when they were done with the place." Kyle shuddered. "I don't even wanna know what that means. The Cult has been snooping around the island for, well, ever. But the Park Rangers usually scare 'em off. But now. . . If they've gone off the deep end, they've probably gotten their revenge on the Rangers." Kyle's eyes drifted out towards the window, towards the river. Even with two Peggies floating downstream, the Henbane was as picturesque as ever. "I hope they're okay."

"We'll check it out," Rook said.

Kyle looked over. "You're gonna go picking more fights with the Peggies?"

"Hey, kickin' bad-guy ass and savin' folk is what we do," Bishop said, pushing off the counter and rolling his head, popping his neck.

"Yeah. What he said."

Even with Rook's flat response, Kyle's eyes sparkled as he looked at her. "You guys are angels."

Rook physically could not roll her eyes any harder. "Just keep safe and far away from anyone wearing those dumbass crosses."

Kyle nodded. "Yes, ma'am!"

~~

As Dennis led Rook and Bishop towards the Ranger Station, Rook cleaned off one of the arrows she managed to salvage from the fight. Careful not to cut herself on the broadhead, she used a stick to push out a small bone fragment.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this," Dennis said.

"None of us are," Bishop said.

"You are!"

"No, we're not," Rook said. "Nobody told you when you woke up this morning that you were going to kill someone. We were just. . . more prepared."

". . . I just want to get home."

"Me too."

"Me three," Bishop added.

~~

"Whoa, whoa," Bishop said, grabbing Dennis by the shirt. "Don't go in half-cocked."

"But they're gonna kill her!" Dennis hissed.

"They'll kill her if they spot us. Just wait for Rook."

Dennis ground his teeth, but returned to his prone position. He kept his sights trained on the Peggy that was dragging one of the Station's two Rangers, a brunette named Polly, out of the Station by the hair. He threw her down in front of a bonfire, which looked to have been made of a mixture of furniture and books. 

"Ain't so high-and-mighty is ya now, bitch?!" the Peggy shouted, kicking Polly in the stomach. Dennis bit his tongue until he tasted iron.

Bishop kept his cool. Four Peggies this time. Maybe one or two more in the Station. Stay cool. Stay frosty. 

"You see the other Ranger?"

"No," Dennis said.

"We'll send ya up North to Jacob, he'll beat that Pride right outta ya!" Polly got kicked again.

"Please. . ."

"Oh! 'Please', huh? What happened to 'creep,' huh?" The Peggy turned to his two compatriots. "It's 'please' now! Ain't we on top now!"

_Two? There were three a moment ago,_ Bishop thought. He scanned the field again, looking for the third. No sign. _Rook._

"Get ready," Bishop said. 

"What?"

"Watch the one with the pipe. She's a runner."

Dennis darted his eyes between the two other Peggies. Which one had a pipe?

"Or maybe we _won't_ send ya to Jacob! Eden's Gate doesn't need an uppity bitch like you!" the Peggy raised a pistol—

Gunfire ripped out from inside the Station. The Peggy crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. _Crack!_ the Peggy tossing books onto the bonfire fell over.

The final Peggy pulled a lead pipe from her belt, her head snapping around, then again, searching for the source of the gunshots. Dennis thought of the other Peggy, rolling around on the rock. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. Then again. Again.

"Hey! Easy!" Bishop shouted. _Crack!_

Again. Again.

"Crawford!"

Again. Again.

"Dennis!"

Dennis felt his AR get pulled to the side. He opened his eyes.

"Jesus, Crawford. Take it easy." Bishop had a hand on Dennis' AR, which was now pointed firmly down at the dirt.

Dennis looked downrange. The Peggy with the pipe lay motionless in the dirt, now muddy with blood. Polly was motionless as well.

_Oh God. Oh God. Did I?—_

Rook came out of the Station, sweeping the area with her AR. Finding the area clear, she stood straighter and relaxed. She waved to the treeline.

"Put it on safe."

Dennis looked over at Bishop.

"Your rifle. Put it on safe. Let's go."

Dennis looked at the rifle. He flicked his thumb. _Click._

~~

Rook walked over to the Peggy with the pipe. She wasn't moving, but her chest was rising slightly and laboriously. Rook unsheathed her knife and knelt down. . . 

Checking the other Peggies, they were already dead. _Fortunate so far._

"Hey, Ranger." Rook walked up to the Ranger next to the bonfire. She knelt, setting her rifle aside. The Ranger was a brunette, like Rook. She wore tan slacks and a green uniform shirt, like Rook usually did. _Hell, we could be sisters._

She whispered something.

"What?"

"Is it over?" the Ranger asked, barely any louder. 

"Yeah."

The Ranger opened her eyes. She recoiled when she saw Rook's Glock knife, but couldn't scoot any farther away. The fire was at her back.

"It's okay. I'm gonna cut those ties off you."

"O-oh," the Ranger said. "Right. Of course."

Rook reached over her, hooking her finger under the tie and providing a buffer. She cut through the zip-tie without much difficulty. 

"They didn't prepare me for this at the Academy," the Ranger said.

"Hell, you can say that again." Rook offered her hand.

The Ranger took it. Her name-plate said _'Simmons.'_

"Ranger Simmons."

"Please, call me 'Polly.'"

"Deputy Rook." Rook flashed her badge. She nodded over. "That's my partner, Bishop."

Bishop strode over, the Winchester resting on his shoulder. Dennis was behind.

"Suppose we should apologize for kickin' all this off," Bishop said.

"Huh?"

"We went to arrest the, uh, 'Father.'" Bishop made air-quotes with his free hand.

Polly shook her head. "Gonna happen sooner or later." Polly looked over at the station. "How's my partner?"

Rook's eyes widened. "Oh, shit. Yeah."

Polly opened her mouth in horror.

"Oh, no, he's fine and all. I just forgot he was in there. He's still tied to a chair."

Polly let out a sigh of relief. "I'll go cut him loose."

Rook watched her go.

"Shit, kid." Dutch's voice crackled over the radio. "I'm impressed. You got more fight in you than I thought. You got a real chance at setting up this Resistance. . . Next step is clearing up the radio signal. My CB's on the fritz and I can't get a hold of anyone off this island. . . the radio tower near the south shore must be busted or tampered with. You think you can check it out for me?"

Bishop reached up and grabbed a hold of his handset. "10-4, good buddy. Bishop out."

Rook shook her head. She looked over. "You okay there, Dennis?"

Dennis shook his head. "I'm _not_ cut out for this."

Rook looked to Bishop. Bishop looked back at her.

"Ain't no shame in that," Bishop said. "Killing's a helluva thing. A lot to ask of any man."

"Yeah. Dennis. . . When we get off this island, you should just go home to your girls. Keep them safe."

"What about the Resistance?"

"Keeping your girls safe is resistance enough. Not everyone can be a killer." Rook looked him up and down. "Hell, it's probably a good thing not to have the stomach for killing."

Dennis nodded, his eyes drifting down to his feet. 

"Let's take five then hit up that radio tower," Rook said. "I'll check on the Rangers."

Bishop nodded. He walked over to where a rocking chair was overturned on the porch, and pulled it upright. "Come sit a spell, Dennis. Trees are nice this time of year. . ."

Inside, Polly and her partner were wasting no time. Polly was in the cramped bathroom, wiping off smeared makeup while her partner swept away broken glass and the shattered door-frame. _Peggies came in like a hurricane, huh?_

"What's next for y'all?" Rook asked.

"Screw this island," Polly said.

"Ain't like it ain't important," her partner said, "but if it's going down around here, we gotta get back to our folks."

Rook saw that Polly had already retrieved her pistol and put it back in its holster. Park Rangers were fully licensed law enforcement officers. They even had their own badges.

"Besides, we can do more good in Fall's End or the Valley than keeping this patch of dirt and trees out of Peggy hands."

"Amen to that," Rook said. "You got any grub around here?"

"Hell yeah. Let me fix you some coffee. . ."

_"Thank God."_


End file.
